I Keep On Loving You
by sarapals with past50
Summary: A freak accident involving Sara. Grissom is at her side. A little mystery to solve. Fluff-and GSR, of course.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: A new story-enjoy!_

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 1**

Sara lay on the high white bed and stared at the ceiling. It had taken a while for her to wake up; her vision had finally cleared. Her mind was trying to make some kind of order to her situation. Flat on her back, encased in something unfamiliar—a bed with shiny bars and a different kind of mattress that made her feel as if she were floating on air—had made her conclude she was in a hospital.

From the shadows, she had deduced it was night—otherwise, the room would be brighter. Somehow, she knew there was a window that she could not see. And, even while her eyes were trying to focus, she recognized the antiseptic smell of a hospital—a hospital, she thought—how'd she get in a hospital bed. She thought she was alone but the whirring and humming of machines around her could be disguising a human presence.

Moving her head slightly caused her head to hurt—moving her eyes caused her head to hurt. She licked her lips—her throat was sore—and attempted to make a fist with her right hand before realizing her arm did not move as it should. She tried her left hand with similar results.

Shifting her eyes again, she attempted to look at the foot of the bed but some kind of tent made it impossible to see beyond her abdomen. She found a clock on the wall; concentrating, blinking several times trying to clear fuzzy eyes, she finally decided it was three-thirty—or was it six-fifteen? She was confused—and her thought process muddled.

Hospital—what had happened to put her here? Concentrating on the last thing she remembered—her head hurt so much, she closed her eyes.

Crime scene, early morning, she remembered. One of the young detectives had called to her—but she remembered returning to the lab and talking to D.B. But then her memory became a jumble as her brain scrambled with recollected noise. Maybe she had not returned to the lab, but what had happened to put her in a hospital bed, hooked up to quietly purring machines.

She tried to move—and nearly fainted. She could not construct a reasonable thought because of unexpected pain. She heard a sharp cry—and realized it was her own voice.

The next voice she heard she recognized as one she loved. "Sara, Sara," he said softly.

Her first thought was that she was dreaming. Her husband wasn't living with her; not officially separated, they remained in an undetermined state of limbo. But she knew his voice.

She attempted to say "Gil" but it came as out a guttural groan. Then his hand was on her cheek and in the same instant, a faint fragrance, a nostalgic breath of recognizable soap teased her nostrils and swarmed about her brain, overriding the antiseptic-antibacterial-bleach smell of her surroundings, over-coming the confusing sounds swarming in her mind.

Her brain calmed.

Sara turned her head as her husband bent over the bed. He wore a soft red shirt, his long hair was tousled, and, she thought, he was as handsome as the day they married.

"Hey, honey," he whispered. His soft fingers touched her brow; he smiled. "You're going to be okay."

She tried to form words but her mouth did not want to work.

Grissom seemed to read her efforts. He said, "You had an injury at work—you've had surgery."

Over his shoulder, another person appeared. "Our patient is awake!" The young woman announced as if she was presenting some kind of award.

"She's in pain," Grissom said.

"We'll fix that," said the nurse as she stepped out of Sara's vision for a few seconds. "Can you nod your head, Mrs. Grissom?" she asked.

Sara attempted to nod.

"It will take a few minutes for the pain med to work. We can give you a few ice chips."

Sara nodded again. The nurse moved to the side of the bed and Sara thought the small-built woman impossibly young to be a nurse but the way she moved with an easy self-assurance around the bed, at ease dealing with Gil Grissom, who did not leave his place at the side of the bed, showed a confidence of experience.

The nurse and Grissom exchanged questions and answers in a comfortable manner giving Sara reason to believe the two had already had several conversations. She heard the rattle of ice and a small cup passed across the bed to Grissom.

"Honey," he whispered in a voice reminiscent of a darkened bedroom, "ice, just a little." He held a small piece of ice between a finger and thumb.

She opened her mouth and accepted a miniscule chip of ice, letting her tongue push the sliver across her dry lips. She managed a smile when he offered a second chip.

"Not much at one time," young nurse suggested—or ordered.

The third time Grissom's finger touched her lip, he said, "Lip stuff—moisturizer." He spread a thin coat across her bottom lip before he stretched his own mouth into a straight line. She followed his unspoken directions as he smeared moisturizer on her top lip. And then he gave her more ice.

The ice seemed to give some relief to her aching throat. "More, please," she said and her words were actually recognizable.

Grissom smiled. "You are talking!" His voice was soft, hopeful—a sound she had missed, had longed to hear for months.

And with his words, Sara realized two things: she could move her head without piercing pain shooting around her body and her husband had returned from—from some faraway place she could not bring into her foggy brain.

The young nurse had disappeared for a few minutes and when she reappeared, she moved to the foot of the bed and lifted the sheet.

Quickly, a sharp pressure against her foot caused Sara to jerk her foot—or she thought she did.

"Good," young nurse said, "You are responding!" Same thing to the left foot, with "That's great!"

Sara's eyes went back to Grissom, pleading with questions. "What?" She did not know if she said the word or thought it.

She watched as her husband glanced at the nurse. "Sara wants to know what happened."

The nurse came back to the side of the bed before she asked, "Would you like one of the physicians? Or you can—I can help with some of it."

Grissom nodded, saying, "We can—she needs to know."

"Briefly—we don't want to tire you out, Mrs. Grissom." It was another order that was presented as a suggestion.

Grissom's hand cradled her head; his thumb moved gently back and forth across her forehead. Quickly, he told her:

"You were working a crime scene, early morning, when you stepped on a manhole cover that wasn't a cover at all—it was—it was fake—and thin plastic. The real one had been stolen—no one had noticed—until you stepped on it and fell into the hole. You fell nearly fifteen feet."

He stopped and glanced at the nurse before he continued, "You've got a fractured pelvis, multiple fractures of your right ankle and foot, and your right arm." Again, glancing at the nurse, he gave a slight nod of his head.

The young nurse said, "You've had surgery to stabilize your pelvis—there is a—a contraption to hold everything in place. You've got a cast on your ankle and foot and one on your arm." She pointed to Sara's foot and arm. "You've got several monitors and multiple lines for meds and fluids, a catheter for urine." The young woman's serious face showed concern that surpassed professional interest. "You've been sedated for—for four days." A quick smile crossed her lips, "and this guy has been driving us crazy waiting for you to wake up."

"Four days," Sara whispered. She had no recollection of anything—of falling, of arriving at a hospital—four days had simply disappeared. And her husband had returned. An almost forgotten lyric leaped suddenly into her thoughts—"Our love is the best thing I've ever known…"

_A/N: Thanks for reading. Thank you for reviewing! More to come._


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Because you read-and some of you reviewed-here's a new chapter! About Grissom! Thanks so much!_

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 2**

Gil Grissom had arrived at the hospital less than twelve hours after getting a phone call from Greg Sanders. The conversation had been brief and terse: Sara had been seriously injured, undergoing emergency surgery, and, as her health care proxy, Grissom needed to know. Greg never said the words that Sara's husband needed to be with her. Grissom had asked a few questions and, a few hours later when he had walked out of the airport, Greg had been waiting curbside.

He had listened as Greg had related details—of the accident, of surgery, of Sara sleeping in a medically-induced coma in recovery, that Nick was taking care of Sara's dog—but the young man had asked no questions. Grissom did not know how much Greg knew of their marital situation—very little in all probability because Sara did not talk.

On arrival at the hospital, met by D.B., Nick, Jim, and Ecklie saying a fog of meaningless words, Grissom had been taken to Sara's bedside—other than Jim Brass, who was named as one of two emergency contacts on Sara's personnel record, no one else had been admitted. Jim had said Sara was resting but his pale, worried face indicated wordless fear.

The rules were strict and enforced; Grissom dressed in a disposable jumpsuit, washed his hands in disinfectant soap, covered his face with a mask and was escorted through a double air-lock into an atmosphere that was as sterile as humanly possible. Hushed voices and the whisper of life-giving machines was all the noise he heard.

A very tall male nurse provided details of Sara's condition in terms that were equally confusing and comprehensible—Grissom knew she was critical, knew her pelvic ring was fractured in two places, additional fractures of her ankle and arm—but when he followed the nurse and saw the bed, he actually gasped in shock. He felt the pressure of the nurse's hand on his elbow. A dozen tubes hooked to Sara ran from the bed to machines; a sheet covered the bed but not Sara.

"It's the external fixator—holding her body in one position," he explained. "She'll have that for ten days or so. She has screws and plates holding the pelvic structure in place." The nurse glanced at Grissom. "We see these fractures in motorcycle accidents—falls like your wife took are second most common."

Grissom had moved to the side of the bed; his hand reached to touch Sara's cheek. Quietly, he said, "She'll be cold." His voice shook and for the first time in his memory, he felt light-headed.

"Breathe," he heard the nurse say. A hand on his shoulder pushed. "Sit down—there's a stool right behind you."

Grissom sat.

The nurse continued talking, "She's warm—the bed is heated. She's wearing socks on her feet. The bed helps with circulation. She's sedated so she won't respond but you should talk to her. A lot of patients respond to a voice they know."

Grissom had not given a thought to how he would react; and now he was a blubbering idiot, seemingly incapable of making a rational sentence. Taking several deep breaths, he asked:

"How long can I stay?"

The nurse gave his a shoulder pat, saying "As long as you want—you can't eat or sleep in here but she'll be moved to another room in twelve to twenty-four hours. She really is doing well." He paused before adding, "The surgeon will be in soon and he'll go into more detail. Right now—we work to keep her comfortable."

Grissom nodded and a few seconds later, realized he was alone.

For an hour, he sat beside the bed, watching as nurses came in to provide care. They were professional and considerate, explaining what they were doing as they worked. After the third one suggested he talk to Sara, he did.

In a quiet voice, he had talked about his work; he could not find the words to talk about them, about their lives—not in the beginning—so, softly, he spoke of honey bee research while he kept one knuckle stroking her cheek.

At some point, two surgeons asked that he follow them to a small cubicle where he saw scans and x-rays of the actual damage to Sara's body. Obvious breaks to bones in her foot, ankle, and arm, extensive injury to her pelvis with two dark fracture lines needed little explanation. The scans showed soft tissue damage but, amazingly, she had little trauma above her waist and only a small scrape at her hairline marred her face.

"This is why she'll need to wear the external device for a while," Dr. Pham, the younger of the two, said as he pointed to the pelvis scans. "It's a tough recovery. She'll need four to six weeks of essential bed rest—and weeks, if not months of rehab." He paused for a few seconds and when Grissom did not ask questions, he added, "We'll get her moved to a private room that's a bit more visitor friendly but we don't want her awake for at least another thirty-six hours."

After that, Grissom roused from a state of uncertainty to one with a purpose.

He had left Sara's bedside for a while to talk to her co-workers—who quickly agreed that one of them would always be at the hospital. They also agreed with his decision not to tell Sara's mother—yet—of Sara's accident. Again, as with Greg, none of the men asked Grissom about the current state of his marriage.

At their insistence, he had agreed to eat a meal in the hospital cafeteria and, while eating, he mentioned his last time in Vegas had been to bury his mother.

Nick, sighing loudly, eyes glinting with unspoken emotions, bluntly asked, "Why do you stay away, Grissom?"

The three men with him—Nick, Greg, and Jim—had known Grissom for years and knew his quirky, often unexplainable behavior was frequently baffling from their point of view. After Nick's question, a stiff stillness of silence surrounded the table as the three men held a collective breath.

A frown had crossed Grissom's face as he swallowed his food. His fingers went across his mouth. His eyes fixated on something across the room. Slowly, his head shook from side to side.

"I never meant to stay away," he said so softly that Greg, seated across the table, would not have heard the words if he had not been watching Grissom's face.

Again, the three men remained silent. An expectation of more kept them quiet.

_A/N: Did you think anyone would get much out of Grissom? More to come! Reviews, comments are always appreciated! _


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Another chapter with the men! A few of you have reviewed and asked questions as "Guest"-we can't answer if we don't have your contact name! So thanks for the reviews and your interest! But provide a name if you want us to respond! _

_Thank you to all of you who have reviewed and who have mark the story as a "favorite"! More to come! _

**I Keep on Loving You **

**Chapter 3**

When Grissom's eyes returned to those faces sitting around him, he was startled by the expressions: Nick's mouth was open like a caught carp. The normally calm eyes of Jim Brass were wide, whites showing all around. And Greg—Greg's eyes were tight, a grimace lined his mouth. He was the first to break the silence.

"Then why did you stay away?"

Startled at the young man's question, Grissom remembered a time when Greg had been intimidated anytime he had been around Supervisor Gil Grissom. The years had changed the anxious boy to a skilled and confident adult—and a good friend to the woman in the intensive care unit.

In a flash, Grissom had realized these three men loved and cherished Sara Sidle; they had been with her day-to-day, month after month while he had traveled the world.

Grissom began speaking without specifically addressing any of the three. "I never meant to stay away—it—it just happened." A slight shrug of his shoulders and he continued, telling a truthful story of plans that had been disrupted by complications, some self-made and some out of their control, missed phone calls, cancelled flights, special occasions neglected. It had not been easy for him to admit fault—even though he knew the stalemate between he and Sara lay in his decision to work on various far-flung projects.

Seeing the confusion on their faces, he had decided to backtrack.

"When Sara returned, we made the decision that Vegas would be home-base. My mother was here; Sara planned to move her mother here. Hank wasn't a good traveler—we had friends—ties here." Looking at each man, he realized he had not explained anything.

He stabbed at the food on his plate. "I've never had good people skills—except with Sara-she understands me, or she did. The longer the distance between us the easier the distance was to manage—we made plans, bought tickets, met in some of the most beautiful cities in the world.

"Then fifteen months ago—no, actually longer than that—I got an offer and took a job with a bee research group working for USDA," he said. "In Weslaco, Texas—near Brownsville—it was going to be easy to get home—I thought. I got involved—some of the experiments needed constant observations or I'd end up flying somewhere for a crisis." He made an audible sigh before continuing, "You have known me for years—you know how—how I can get. I buried myself in work—got absent minded—forgot to eat—and I'm responsible for pretty much abandoning my wife—except when I needed…"

"You came back for your mother's funeral," Jim Brass growled. "What was that? One time in two years?"

Distress filled Grissom's face. Anxiously, he added, "No—no—I—I was here several times! I mean—all of this—Sara and I have stayed on good terms. Sara was so good with my mother—right up to the end." Sadness flickered across his face when he said, "There is no reason—I should have been here!" He had balled his hand into a fist.

Nick and Greg glanced at each other; both men thinking they would witness the rare event of Grissom losing his cool.

But Grissom's fist went to his chest. "I know I've hurt Sara—yet, she has always been supportive. When I didn't show up, she'd say it was okay—she'd be working." The fist relaxed and his hand wiped across his face. "Months ago—a few months after I'd gone to Texas, she wanted me to move back home—permanently—there was an open position at the university. The department chair assured me I'd get it if I applied—but I was stubborn—pigheaded. Told her I was doing something I'd wanted to do for years—and," he sighed, miserably again, "and the 'conversation' went downhill from there—told her she could divorce me if she wanted.

"All the promises I made—and broke—it sounds so—so hypocritical, so insincere—but I'm determined," his voice faded away.

Again, Greg and Nick passed glances at each other; pieces of the puzzle of Grissom's absence and Sara's unhappiness were falling into place.

A soft growl came from Brass before he said, "You've made a fine mess of things, Gil. Sara's not been herself for months—does a good job of covering up what she really feels. But, I'm telling you, if you don't fix things…" his thumb pointed to his chest.

Nick, his emotions on edge for hours, said, "Sara loves you, Griss—no one doubts that—but you've got to be here for her!"

In the past, Nick's attitude could get under Grissom's skin but at some point, he had realized Nick reminded him of himself. At the table, Grissom silently nodded his head, agreeing with Nick.

No one finished their meal as the conversation turned to Sara's condition. Nick and Greg left for work. Brass followed Grissom back to the waiting room as the two men seemed to have slipped back into a comfortable camaraderie as Jim related events around Sara's accident.

"Stealing manhole covers is big business but to cover one with a fake—plastic—takes the thief to an entirely different level." Brass talked on with information that Grissom heard but did not retain.

In the comfortable waiting area for intensive care families, Grissom suggested, "you don't need to stay, Jim."

"I'm staying—when you need sleep, I'll trade places with you." He gave Grissom a pat on his shoulder. "Start apologizing—she might hear you." Brass gave a quiet chuckle and headed to one of the large recliners on the dark side of the room.

Nearly twenty hours passed before Sara was moved to a private room in a step-down unit—no longer critical, the breathing apparatus removed but it seemed, to Grissom, that she had a lot of machines attached when moved to the room.

The room was different—more home-like, larger with a long sofa, a private bathroom, a television on the wall; visitors were allowed during certain hours. Family members could stay in the room, even sleep on the sofa and eat meals.

Except for a few hours, Grissom stayed in the room. He had his travel bag and picked up fresh clothing at the house—a house he had helped Sara choose and then had chosen to stay away. He had been despondent when he entered the quiet house; the clean, organized—and beautiful—rooms drove home what he had missed with the decisions he had made.

He found Sara's music device and decided to take it with him. At her bedside, he found two books and put them in the same bag as several personal items. As he wandered through the house, he saw what his life was missing—almost making himself physically sick—as he walked from room to room. Sara had beautifully incorporated some of his mother's favorite things around the house. He had picked up several photographs and, impulsively, added several of them to take to the hospital.

For the hours that followed, he sat beside Sara's bed, read her books out loud, ate food brought to him by others, watched others care for her, and slept sporadically.

He had been asleep when she had quietly awakened from the medically imposed sleep but her soft cry had brought him fully alert in seconds.

Softly, he said, "Sara, Sara."

_A/N: Thank you for reading-our response to Grissom's absence (vague, we know!) but it works!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing! _

**I Keep on Loving You**

**Chapter 4**

Sara drifted back to sleep only to wake in less than an hour. The musical lyrics of a favorite song had faded and, opening her eyes, she was confused again until she heard his voice. Or was she dreaming?

"Gil?" She heard her voice, thick and hoarse as she said his name.

"I'm here, Sara." His cool fingers touch her face.

She struggled to lift eyelids heavy with remnants of a long imposed sleep. "Gil? I'm in a hospital?" She asked.

Quickly, he related a short version of her accident while placing ice chips in her mouth.

"How long have I been here?"

He told her.

"How long have you been here?"

"I came as quickly as I could. Greg called me."

A thought caused her to smile. "You were with me when I woke before."

"Yes, I was." Grissom said. "You've been sleeping."

Another wisp of a smile lifted the edges of her mouth. "It seems a long time ago. You were with me then—when I woke up."

"Not that long—just an hour or so."

"I meant after Natalie—when I was in the desert."

Caught off guard, his throat tightened; it took several seconds for Grissom to speak. "Yes, that was a long time ago."

Throughout the night, Sara slept, woke and asked a few questions—often the same ones—before she drifted back to sleep. Grissom sat by her bed, keeping his hand on her arm as he listened to her music using her player, surprised at her choice of songs, or read one of the books from her bedside at home.

Nursing staff, appearing as mystical creatures, quietly entered the darkened room, checked Sara, and left just as quietly, each time telling Grissom that Sara continued to improve. Twice, Sara was awake and answered questions; her wide, dark eyes following the nurse's movements around her bed.

Often, she was confused for a few minutes until reminded that she was in the hospital; the nurse assured him this was normal for waking from an induced sleep.

The same nurse had returned a few minutes later with a cup of apple juice, explaining he could give Sara sips of juice when she was awake.

Grissom had opened the window blinds during the night and realized the room faced east, away from the garish lights of the Strip. Before dawn, a purple haze stretched across the sky and shadowed the range of mountains to the east of the Las Vegas valley. He knew the area—red and white swirls of sandstone, rocks with sloping edges as sharp as knives, dry land and dry brush as Lake Mead shrank to record levels.

He sighed as he returned to the chair next to Sara's bed. Propping his elbows on the bed, he swiped his eyes and ran fingers through his hair.

"You look tired," Sara said.

Grissom, not realizing she was awake, let his eyes meet hers. "I didn't realize you were awake," he said. "You mean I look old."

Carefully, he lifted a spoon filled with juice and placed it between her lips.

She swallowed and licked her lips. "No, I don't mean that at all." She smiled. "Thanks for opening the blinds—maybe now I'll know when it's day and night."

Dropping his right hand gently to her forehead, he brushed his thumb along her brows. "I'm fine, dear."

"I didn't think you would come back after—after your mother died."

As he continued to stroke her forehead, he said, "I've been such a fool, Sara." He sighed. "Will you ever forgive me?"

She let her eyes close; her eyelashes made dark crescents on pale cheeks. He could see bright crystals of tears forming under her lids. A lock of hair curved across her face and he pushed it back. With his index finger, he carefully wiped Sara's eyes. For a while, both remained silent; he couldn't tell if she was awake or had drifted back to sleep.

Then, as Sara's eyes remained closed, she whispered: "I'm sorry, Gil—for everything."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Sara," he replied as he rested his hand on her head.

"I told you to go fuck yourself. I shouldn't have said that."

Grissom made a soft chuckle before saying, "Forget it, dear. I deserved it." He dropped his left hand to rest across her chest. "I'm the one who needs to apologize." He could feel her heart beating under his palm. "I have been very selfish while you have always been concerned for others—for me, for my mother, for your mother."

Opening her eyes, the dark chocolate brown, soft and warm in the first light of dawn, he realized how much he loved this woman. "I love you, Sara."

The look in her eyes always told him she saw the man inside him and not the man who was self-centered and pigheaded-stubborn. He knew she was protective, ferociously loyal to the point of sacrificing her own happiness—and, without doubt, knew she was the love of his life.

He lifted his butt off the chair and leaned over her bed so his lips were above hers. Softly, he whispered, "I've been listening to your music—and I don't want to love anyone but you."

For a few seconds, he hovered over her face as their eyes met in a warm exchange of understanding and acceptance. He kissed her—slowly, gently, savoring the warmth of her lips against the chill of her tongue, faintly tasting the apple juice he had given her.

_A/N: Now-how much more? Should we leave our favorite couple in this tender moment? Yes? No? Send us a word of encouragement...and more to come-soon! _


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N:_**_Thanks for reading and sending all the wonderful encouraging comments and reviews!_

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 5**

By the time the morning sunlight was sweeping shadows from the corners of the hospital room, the arrival of a medical team had managed to keep Sara from going back to sleep. Two more physicians had joined the orthopedic surgeons—an internist and an urologist—who gently prodded and asked questions. All four were informative, giving details of her injuries; the older man in the group, obviously the team's chief, was reserved when Sara asked how long it would take to recover.

"You will recover, Sara. I want you to keep the external support for several more days—it's uncomfortable but, I believe, it will speed your recovery in the long run. We're not even going to talk about discharge—you will be here until you move into rehab and I'll suggest that may be ten days away—I've seen patients rush up rehab only to have problems in six months." He patted her shoulder, biting his bottom lip, obviously thinking as he passed his eyes from her arm to her covered feet.

A few seconds later, he continued, "On this unit—and rehab—we see our share of pelvic fractures." He held up both hands and made a circle with his fingers touching. "The pelvis is like a pretzel—when one part breaks, another part breaks. You have a fracture where my middle finger would be the top of your pelvic ring." He wiggled one finger. "Then you have another break down here, where my thumb is."

Sara nodded her understanding.

The physician continued, "The good news is—it's called a vertical sheer fracture—your bones did not shatter or crush, so if we hold the bones together—that's what the plates and screws will do—your recovery will go much faster. The bad news is—the first few weeks are hard—on you. You'll be pretty much bed bound."

Sara attempted a smile before saying, "So I'm here for a while."

Without giving an answer, the physician turned to a nurse standing with the group. "Didn't I see Benita today?"

The nurse answered "Yes."

"Make sure our patient here has Benita as her nurse."

And following a few more words from the physicians, they were gone.

Grissom stepped back to Sara's bedside and reached for the tissue box. Silently, he dabbed the tears leaking from her eyes.

"How did this happen?" She asked as she tried to raise her hand only to realize, again, that her arm was still strapped to an arm board. Tears wept from her eyes. "I don't remember anything."

Pulling his chair to the bed, he sat down and reiterated, softly telling her how she had fallen into a manhole, the stolen cover replaced by a thin plastic, yet realistic appearing one. In the early darkness of dawn, no one had noticed it wasn't the real thing until Sara had stepped on it and disappeared.

She shook her head again, saying, "I don't remember any of it."

Grissom brushed her hair with his fingers. He said, "It's probably best you don't remember it, Honey. You had very serious injuries." His smile was gentle. "All the guys stayed with you—Nick was in that manhole telling the EMTs what to do. Greg called me. And you and D.B. are a perfect blood match—when you needed a transfusion, you got his blood. I think he was adamant that he would be your donor."

At his comment about her supervisor, Sara smiled. "I may grow a few inches taller."

They both laughed at her joke.

"You're going to be fine, Sara—fine." His hand caressed her face. "It may take a while, but we'll take a canoe trip—another honeymoon."

"Could we? I'd love to do that—we were so happy, Gil." She smiled again, fleetingly before a frown passed across her face.

Grissom finished what she had left unsaid, saying, "We were happy—we can be happy again." He smiled a flirty grin, "Let's break the spell and end the curse…"

Sara laughed, a light-hearted giggle, followed by a grimace. "It hurts to laugh—and you've been listening to my music!"

He nodded, saying, "Heart-shaped wreckage—I'd say we've gone through hell," he smiled. "We can fix this, Sara."

"What about your work?"

"It's here for now."

Any more conversation was interrupted when a loud knock was heard seconds before the door opened and a giant of a woman walked in. She was dressed in starched white from neck to toe—unusual in a day when nurses often appeared in Disney printed smocks—with skin the color of dulce de leche that Sara remembered from a trip to Argentina and large soft brown eyes that reminded one of a pet dairy cow. Age was difficult to determine but cheekbones and black hair suggested an indigenous heritage somewhere in the Americas.

"Good morning!" She said as she approached the bed. "I'm Benita—I'll be your nurse for the next three or four days. Now—do I call you Sara or Mrs. Grissom or 'patient'," she gave a nod of acknowledgement to Grissom, "and to you—is it Dr. Grissom?"

"Sara."

"Gil," he said, rising from his chair.

The two detected an accent, slight enough to know Benita had not grown up in the United States, but almost unnoticeable in her professional manner.

The nurse held a tablet in one hand; Sara noticed how small the device appeared in a palm the size of book.

"Okay, Sara, you and I will be together and doing very personal things," Benita's smile showed strong, white teeth. "I've been handling patients like you for over fifteen years." Another smile, "Mostly men—crazy boys riding motorcycles or doing some kind of stunt—so I am pleased to work with a woman!" She glanced at Grissom as a soft, low laugh bubbled to her lips. "And we'll make sure we do it right."

All Sara and Grissom could do is nod in agreement.

"First things—you know about your injuries, right? You are going to be bed-bound for a while, right? Then you'll go to rehab, right?"

Sara nodded.

"Okay—today, I'll give you a bed bath—as much as I can with all this apparatus hooked to you—you will feel much better. We'll work on your hair—your skin. I'm going to get some food in here—liquids today—see if you can eat enough so one of these IVs can be removed." She glanced at Grissom, saying, "While we are working on this, why don't you—you do that for yourself? I'll take care of Sara for the next hour or so." She laughed again. "You look like you could use a long shower, a change of clothes and a good meal."

The nurse's directive to Grissom caused Sara to laugh for the second time that morning.

Grissom laughed. His eyes crinkled as he tilted his head to one side; his mind had been running at fast forward since Benita had entered the room. "Excellent idea," he said. He pointed an index finger in the general direction of 'south'. "Zapotec?"

Benita threw her dark-haired head back and laughed. "Smart! Few people get it because of my height—usually it's 'Amazon'—but, yes, I'm Zapotec. Came up when I was sixteen—already taller than any of the boys in my village." She chuckled again, saying, "Now, get out of here for a while—we—Sara and I have some personal things to take care of—you'll learn quickly—I'll teach you!" Waving her hand, she ordered him out.

With this introduction of nurse and patient, Sara soon learned the intimate procedures of being a bed-bound patient. Benita knew how to handle Sara with an effortless ease—as if she had no weight at all. The nurse rolled clean sheets onto the bed, never disturbing the curved frame over Sara's body. After bathing her with large, soft pads, Benita managed to snap and pin a clean hospital gown over most of Sara's upper body. A brush was found in the bag Grissom had brought in and Benita combed Sara's hair into a high ponytail. Then she applied a creamy lotion over every inch of Sara's exposed skin—in places Sara was certain no lotion had ever been applied, Benita's large hands patted and smoothed with soft, certain hands.

Sara managed to stay awake until Grissom returned, wearing a pale blue shirt and, she noticed, a faint fragrance of his favorite soap which she kept in the bathroom cabinet.

"You've been home," she whispered when he bent over and kissed her.

"I have." He kissed her again and found a place to rest his hand on her pillow. "And you look—look refreshed—I like your pony tail." Gently, he twisted her hair around his fingers. "The first time we met you had a pony tail."

_A/N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter of 'moving forward'-more to come! _


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading our little story! _

**I Keep on Loving You**

**Chapter 6**

It almost overwhelmed Sara. When she was awake, she had to tamp down the urge to scream—or cry—at least once an hour, but she kept this to herself. Literally trapped by a metal frame across her abdomen and hips, by casts on her arm and leg that meant she could not move, she fought the pain that coursed and flowed throughout her body. Only when it became excruciating did she ask for medication. The situation was temporary, she told herself; she could push through it by being strong.

By the afternoon of the third day with Benita as her nurse, Sara's attempt at subterfuge lay in shatters. Grissom had left, promising to return with a 'surprise' while a team of two was going to wash Sara's hair.

What should have been a simple-hospital-style shampoo turned into an unbearable procedure; tears filled Sara's eyes as the two women worked their patient into position. Before she could blink away the tears, Benita, assisted by a nursing aide, saw the agonizing expression on Sara's face and stopped everything.

"Okay, honey," Benita said softly, "what's going on? You've been putting on a brave face and refusing pain meds except for late at night." The nurse stepped back, fists on her hips; a slight movement of her head sent the aide out the door.

The nurse, as she did several times during her shift, began a careful examination of Sara's skin. "No skin breakdowns and pressure wounds on my patients," she had said to Sara and Grissom as she sought out every bruise, every needle prick on Sara's body and marked each one on a silhouette on the tablet she used for patient care.

"Don't refuse the meds, Sara. This kind of pain can't be pushed aside."

Sara used her free hand to wipe her face; the IV at her clavicle, a respiration monitor, a blood pressure clip, and the catheter for urine were still attached giving one useful arm yet did little in providing independence. She could not do the most intimate daily activities—like wiping her bottom—which would have been embarrassing beyond belief if she had not had Benita doing it for her.

The giant of a woman had a voice that lulled one into a sense of childhood wellbeing—a feeling that Sara had not known on many occasions—Grissom had actually been the one who had named Benita's voice "the sound of security".

"I don't like to take any kind of medication," Sara replied.

Benita continued her careful examination of Sara's skin. "Is that so? Are you going to tell me with a straight face," a grin tilted her mouth, "that you never downed a quantity of brandy or wine late at night—or early morning?"

Easily, Sara laughed. In three days, she had learned Benita could get a grin and laugh in any situation and there was not much the two women had not talked about—mostly about work but Benita had surmised a great deal about her patient from her visitors. No parents, no siblings, only co-workers including two or three males who were very protective of Sara.

Benita's soft chuckle preceded her question, "Are you always so stubborn and hardheaded?"

"I've had a lot of practice."

"Take the pain meds, Sara. You have a long recovery and it will be much easier if pain is controlled."

Sara shook her head, "I don't want to get hooked—long family history."

Benita kept her eyes on Sara's foot; her fingers moved between toes in a gentle massage. She said, "We'll see that doesn't happen. You've got a small red abrasion on the top of your foot." Running her finger along the edge of the soft cast, she explained, "The cast has shifted—swelling is going down—so I need to pad this." Quickly, she folded a gauze pad around the edge of the cast and moved to Sara's hip and pelvic dressings.

"I'll be so glad when this—this stuff is removed." Sara said with a sigh as she placed fingers over her eyes in an attempt to push back pain and tears.

Benita's soft laugh elicited the same response from Sara who had decided long ago that a laugh could cover many emotions. The nurse said, "The docs use this to speed recovery—everyone says the same thing—but they think it shortens rehab by weeks. Of course, it's also mostly younger patients who get it!"

Sara felt the nurse's warm hands through the gloves she wore. "I'll have to leave you when I go to rehab?"

Nodding, Benita said, "It's all about therapists in rehab—nurses take a back seat over there—but I promise to drop by to visit you."

"Do you visit all your patients?"

"No—only special ones like you, Sara—and that husband of yours. He's okay, too." Benita's caring hands checked Sara's arm with the cast, humming as she inspected exposed skin. "Tell me how you two met." Her dark eyes met Sara's. "I know there is a story."

Sara's wish would have been for Benita to talk; the soothing sound of the nurse's voice talking about her kids or her work or her native Mexico would have lulled Sara into a settled ease better than any drug. But Benita was as gentle, as reassuring with her hands as she was with her voice so Sara answered her.

Of course, she made the story light-hearted and much shorter than it actually was, but she covered the first meeting, the romance as it blossomed while Gil Grissom was her supervisor. She laughed as she related the proposal including the bee sting.

"I think he felt bad—I hated bees—and I'd dressed up to watch. Then he talked me into taking off my glove and the bee stung my hand." Sara laughed, adding, "I think he proposed and freaked me out—certainly wasn't expecting that—and that bee knew how freaked out I was!"

Benita continued inspecting Sara's skin, across her chest, her arm; adding lotion to her palm and rubbing it on Sara's arm. She asked, "Then you got married?"

"No—it took a while but we finally got to the place where we knew it was right—it was time."

Sara paused and the nurse looked at her patient's eyes waiting a few seconds before encouraging, "And then?"

Attempting to disguise her thoughts, a smile appeared across Sara's face. "We've always had this bond, Gil and I. It's—it's not something I can explain."

"Ahhh," Benita's smile mirrored Sara's. "With my husband—same way. It's a love match—not everyone has that." She chuckled. "Some people have a lust match. Mine—he knows what I want before I do. He drove a truck across the country for years—I'd miss him so much! Finally, he came home one day, laid the keys on the table and said he was giving it up—he'd work in a warehouse or flip burgers before he'd be gone again."

"What does he do?"

Benita's usual soft laugh became boisterous. "He drives a truck!"

"So he didn't give it up?"

"No, not completely. Now, he drives to San Diego—for a medical supply company—up and back in ten hours, three times a week."

The two women laughed together as easily as long-time friends sharing a new-found solution to an old problem.

"What's all this laughter?" Grissom stood in the doorway, asking the question and holding two large white cups.

Benita replied, "Discussing our men!" She winked at Sara. "I'm going to get your wife a pain med—she can swallow it down with whatever it is you have in those cups."

He held up one of the cups, "Smoothie—with cherries!"

Sara grinned; he had not forgotten her favorite.

Benita gave Grissom a gentle tap on his shoulder as she headed out, saying, "And in twenty minutes, you and I are going to give her a real shampoo! She'll think she's in one of those high-priced spa places."

In less time than predicted, Sara had finished the fruit smoothie, swallowed the pain med, and had her head lifted so a shallow bowl could be placed underneath her head. When the first pitcher of warm water touched her hair, she shivered.

Benita reached for an extra blanket and snuggled it around Sara's shoulders. "A bit warmer," she instructed as Grissom filled the container again.

And so the process went—water washed over Sara's hair as the nurse's giant hands worked scented shampoo into a lather. Grissom emptied the bowl several times as more water was poured, rinsing the bubbles and froth out of her hair.

"This is the epitome of luxury," Sara sighed, feeling more relaxed than she had in days-floating in a cloud of pain reliever and clean hair.

Benita took the pitcher from Grissom's hand and nodded toward Sara. She walked away from the bedside for more water, hoping Sara's husband would take her subtle hint.

He did.

By the time the nurse returned with a filled container, his fingers were threading through Sara's hair. Gently, he kissed her forehead.

"Isn't she beautiful?" His voice was a whisper.

Benita poured water and handed Grissom a towel. "She is." Smiling, the nurse removed the bowl and Grissom wrapped the towel around Sara's wet hair.

Sara, lids heavy with sudden exhaustion, smiled, "Since when did you care about beauty?"

"Since I met you."

Softly, Benita chuckled. "There's a hair dryer in the bathroom—if you think you can use it, I'll be gone."

Neither answered, but she was certain Sara's hair would get dry sooner or later. Neither seemed to notice as she left because they were busy working on upside-down kissing of the other's face.

_A/N: More to come...and thank you for taking time to read and review! _


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Thank you for reading! _

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 7**

Sara opened her eyes to the dim night-time patterns of light dancing across the room; she knew by heart every inch of the ceiling above her bed. She'd asked for the bed to be moved after she realized she was drawing maps in her mind and using the ceiling as an imaginary drawing board. Only a few more days in this room, she thought. The external fixator had been removed earlier which meant she could move easier and she was ready for her rehab to begin.

Two therapists had also visited her earlier, inspecting her casted leg and arm, looking at the new binding around her lower abdomen, taking notes, and then they had elevated her to a sitting position. And she had promptly thrown up on them, the bed, herself—much to her chagrin—while Benita had given the two young therapists a thorough scolding about patient care. Remembering the looks on their faces, Sara smiled and knew she was going to miss the nurse.

She turned her head and looked at the growing stack of books beside the bed. Everyone thought she should be reading—novels and best sellers, romances and mysteries, histories and biographies—but she had not found one book capable of holding her attention long enough to keep her awake.

Most of the time, Grissom would read to her until she drifted to sleep for a few hours. Tonight, she had gone to sleep during a murder mystery—one that had so many suspects that she'd grown tired of trying to keep up with them. When she woke she heard another familiar voice.

Moving her bed had broken up the hospital symmetry of the room; the sofa-bed where Grissom slept was now off to her right and empty; the two chairs were behind her head. She made no sound or movement as she listened to D.B. and her husband talking quietly.

She heard D.B. describe details of finding the thieves who had worked across Vegas stealing manhole covers and replacing them with fake plastic ones.

"They are looking at hard time—judge decided they were a flight risk so they don't even get to go home for a night!"

Sara smiled and closed her eyes. D.B.'s voice was like a familiar, soothing song. She heard Grissom say something—even lower and quieter than usual. Her concentration intensified as she tried to gather what the two men were saying.

Barely more than a whisper, D.B. said, "You have to tell her, Gil!"

"I know, I know—but she's been—she's so helpless," Grissom whispered. "All she would do is worry. She'll have to know but—but I'll tell her later."

Sara's first thought was indignation—she wasn't completely helpless—but quickly realized she really was. She couldn't get out of bed or go to the bathroom on her own much less dress herself. But what had she missed? What had her husband decided not to tell her?

Grissom continued, "Once she gets to rehab—once she's able to—to do a few things, I'll get Greg to come in. I'll tell her then."

D.B. mumbled something she did not understand. She frowned, trying to piece together what Greg had to do with anything. Then suddenly, it hit her—her dog—Greg was caring for her dog, a small brown mutt she had gotten and named Sally Sue after Hank had died—and after the humiliating fiasco with Basderic when she decided she needed a watch-dog in her house. Not that Sally Sue was a real watch dog but one that would bark whenever anyone entered the house.

Sally Sue, at three years old, was healthy and obedient. If an accident had happened—she tried to remember—Greg had been in a few hours ago—and Sally Sue had been fine—he had said she was fine, missing her 'mother'.

Sara stopped thinking of possibilities and listened again to the two men but they had moved on to another topic—talking about changes in the lab.

D.B. said, "I'm searching for a replacement—temporary—until she recovers."

So now they were talking about her job, Sara thought.

"She'll be hard to replace," Grissom said. "I—I—we haven't talked much about the future."

A soft laugh before D.B. said, "Her future is in rehab."

"Yeah, but that's postponed—she's not ready for the intensive therapy yet—we've—we have to make some decisions tomorrow."

This was news to Sara; she shifted in bed, forgetting she was eavesdropping while the men thought she was asleep. And of course, they heard her.

Within seconds, Grissom was at her side; D.B was at the foot of the bed.

"You're awake!" Grissom said. His fingers brushed her hair away from her face.

She confessed, "I've been awake—listening."

"Oh."

A puff of air escaped from D.B.'s mouth. "You heard that I'm looking for a temporary replacement?"

She nodded.

"Any suggestions? There's a girl on day shift that wants to move—she's already been by and asked…"

Sara nodded, "It looks like I'm going to be away for a while—we are—you are already short-handed."

Her supervisor agreed. Pointing his long finger at her, he said, "You take care of yourself, Sara." He smiled, "You've come a long way, baby." He laughed at his joke.

Softly laughing, Sara said, "Thanks for the blood, D.B."

He smiled. "You know about that, do you? Isn't that amazing? You'd do the same for me."

A few minutes later, he left, giving a wave from the door way and a nod of his head directed at Grissom.

"We should have talked in the hallway," Grissom said. "I was hoping you'd sleep all night."

She looked up—into blue eyes as tender and loving as any woman could ever desire. She desperately wanted to believe he loved her as she loved him—but he kept secrets—something he had shared with D.B.—and with Greg but had not told her. Tears filled her eyes.

"Hey, what's this?" He leaned over and kissed her nose. "Are you in pain?" He reached to press the nurse call button.

"No—no—I'm fine, Gil." She wiped tears away. "I—I'm just emotional—no reason," she managed a gruff, sad-sounding laugh. "Except I'm helpless—I can't even sit up on my own."

"I'm here to help, dear. And you're not nearly as helpless as you were." He continued brushing her hair with his fingers, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I've kept something from you, Sara. I need to confess."

Sara inhaled a deep breath and said, "Yeah, I think I heard some of that—rehab is postponed. Must have been the vomiting on those therapists." She turned her head to look at the window before adding, "and something else you haven't told me—that you want Greg to be here? What's that about?"

Gently, his fingers took her chin and turned her face back to his. Softly, he chuckled. "You were eavesdropping!" He nodded his head. "I—I haven't been dishonest, but I haven't been completely upfront about—about one—one change—one thing I—I brought back with me."

Sara was totally confused.

Grissom continued, "I knew when I left Texas—I knew I was leaving for good. I wouldn't go back. I threw things in a suitcase and a couple of boxes but there was one thing—I couldn't leave him!"

Sara's eyes widened; she realized she was holding her breath. "Him?"

"Bexar—like the Texas river—a little dog. I've had him for six months and—and—I couldn't leave him. He was this little stray who wandered around the parking lot for days—eating whatever anyone threw to him." He shrugged. "So I took him in—and brought him with me on the plane. Greg says he and Sally Sue have bonded—even sleep together."

Sara started laughing; laughter that quickly became tears as she laughed and cried at the same time.

"He's just a little thing," Grissom held his hands apart, saying, "About this tall, fuzzy, white. I think you'll like him."

"A dog? You got a dog in Texas—a brother for Sally Sue—why didn't you tell me?" Smiling, she placed her hand on his face, tracing his bottom lip with her finger.

He smirked, grinning. "There's been a lot going on. I was afraid the two dogs might not get along. Bexar slept on my bed. I knew Sally Sue slept on yours." He shrugged again. "Sometimes dogs don't get along—but they seem to be doing great."

Sara wiped tears still running from her eyes. Grissom frowned.

"What did you think I hadn't told you?" His eyes narrowed yet Sara could see the teasing sparkle in them. "You were eavesdropping and decided something bad, didn't you?"

She managed to smile, "I'm always over-thinking, sorry."

Grissom smiled, touched her mouth with his, and kissed her. Pulling away, he said, "I'm sorry I'm such a thoughtless ass. I should have told you about Bexar days ago—but I don't want you to—to worry—or to over think. You've got enough going on as it is."

She sighed. "And now rehab is postponed—what do I do now? Stay here? I can't imagine that happening with the way insurance works."

Holding up one finger, Grissom stepped back and pulled a chair to her bedside. Raising the head of her bed, he then poured water in a cup and held it to her mouth. "You need fluids according to Benita."

"I'm going to miss her," Sara said.

"So am I." He settled back in the chair after turning it to face her. "The two therapists said—their evaluation is that you need another week of recovery—and from what I understand—it means you go to another level of care. Less than this unit."

Sara groaned, "Another hospital room? A nursing home? Like where my mother is?"

Quickly, Grissom shook his head, "I'm not sure—another hospital room, maybe. They mentioned a less intense rehab unit—it's not a long-term care nursing home like your mother's—but one with a rehab wing—you'll begin therapy but not as intense as what they do in the one here." His hand reached for hers. "I'll stay with you—I'll check it out tomorrow—it won't be for long, a few days, a week."

Sara looked up at the familiar ceiling—one she was hoping to leave soon but now its familiarity made her want to stay. Nodding her head, she said, "I wish I could go home, Gil. Just for a while—a few hours." New tears fell from her eyes.

"I do too," he said softly. He held her hand and glanced at her leg and let his eyes travel up to her face. She was scared, he realized. "You are getting better—you will continue to recover." Taking her hand between his palms, he said, "I do love you, Sara. I will do whatever it takes to—to help you recover."

She took a deep breath and began to relax again. "I know you will, Gil."

"I'm sorry for all that's gone on—for staying away—for leaving you when I had made promises." He looked away, shaking his head. "Sara, I—I don't know what I thought would happen to us." His eyes returned to hers. "My mother tried to tell me—I needed to be with you, not chasing some—some insect around the world."

Sara was speechless—and puzzled. Before she could remember all the words she had rehearsed for months, he continued:

"You loved me once—I want you to love me again." He caressed her hand; his expression grew serious. "Until you, I had never experienced emotions of the sort I felt for you—it took me years, but it was such a certainty—like a sunrise—it would always be there."

She started to protest but his hand lifted to silence her.

Slowly, he said, "When we married, I loved you more that day than I would have thought possible—and then I—I…"

"Gil…"

He shushed her again with his hand. "Do you love me? Could you love me again?"

With that, she grabbed his hand and pulled it to her cheek. He moved with it. "Oh, Gil, yes—I've always loved you—I've never stopped—never!" Tears ran down her face as he kissed her.

A few minutes later, her face nestled against his warm shoulder, Sara whispered, "I've missed you, Gilbert."

_A/N: We appreciate all readers-and especially enjoy your reviews! Thank you!_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Another chapter and several new developments! Enjoy!_

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 8**

Gil Grissom could remember many days of frustration but seldom was his frustration so overwhelmingly out of his control. In a whirlwind he had visited the Red Rocks Rehab and Recovery Care Center, not merely a nursing home but a sprawling complex of 'assisted living' to total care. Somehow, physical therapy along with the other associated rehabilitation programs worked into the extended care system and, with high recommendations from Sara's physicians, he had taken the special tour of its rehab facilities—several large rooms with basic rehabilitation equipment—nothing that equaled the state-of-the-art center he had seen attached to the hospital.

Red Rocks Rehab was essentially a nursing home filled with elderly people waiting out their final days except for a newly added wing for rehab—and most of the people he saw were elderly who were learning to maneuver themselves in wheelchairs or walkers after a hip fracture or hip replacement. However, in the rehab room were several younger patients in various stages of treatment slowly learning the basic procedures of moving a broken body.

It was not what he—what Sara—had hoped for but there was not much he could do as he had realized how insurance dictates health care. Sara needed continuous care but not the intensive nursing care at the hospital. So with expectations and promises, Sara had been transported from the hospital to the rehab center. Two of her physicians were in the room, along with Benita, as Sara had been wrapped and strapped onto a gurney for the short trip; the three promised visits to follow her healing progress.

"You are going to see me, Sara," Benita said with a laugh. "And I have a cousin who works at Red Rocks—it's a good place. She promises you will get the best care and be ready for the 'hot shots across town' as she calls the rehab institute here before you know it."

When they got to facility, the promised private room was not available; Sara was admitted to a room shared with an elderly woman, absence from the room, who was recovering from a hip replacement.

Grissom's frustration swelled again with this development yet he held his irritation as Sara was transferred to the bed and a parade of employees came in to work on her admission. It seemed he or Sara answered the same questions for the charge nurse, the supervising nurse, the social worker, the therapists, and several others who asked about foods she liked, about hobbies, about her usual routine. By the time a dozen people had come and gone, Sara was so exhausted all she wanted was rest.

He pulled one of the chairs to her bedside and sat down, recognizing his own tiredness was naught compared to Sara's.

Sara reached for his hand wrapping her fingers around his. "Go home, Gil. Get some rest—sleep in our bed and walk our dogs." Her smiled was etched with fatigue. "I'll be fine—right here when you return."

"I'll stay—at least until you get to sleep."

Her fingers tightened around his. "You are as tired as I am," she said with a sigh. "Would you read to me?"

Quickly, he opened her bag and pulled out a book and started reading—this one about a lady detective in Botswana which had caused both of them to laugh as the story progressed. As he read, he felt Sara's hand relax as her breathing calmed and settled.

A wisp of a breeze drifted across the back of his neck—so much for the 'rule' to knock before entering, he thought—as the door opened and he heard the scuffle and scrape of someone coming into the room. A second later, he realized the person was in a wheelchair and must be the other occupant of the shared room.

A minute later, the dividing curtain moved; Sara and Grissom glanced at each other as a hand pulled the curtain back several inches and a face, wreathed in creases and surrounded by curly white hair, appeared.

"I don't want to interrupt," the woman said in a loud whisper as she pointed over her shoulder. "I'm your roommate over here. Gracie Stone," she placed a hand in the general area of her hip. "Got a new hip and learning to walk with it."

Sara raised her hand in greeting, saying, "I'm Sara." She pointed to Grissom, adding, "Gil Grissom, my husband."

"Welcome to Red Rocks," Gracie said, peering at them with sparkling blue eyes. "My second stay here—came for my knee about six months ago—and it's a good place to be when we need it." She pointed to Sara. "Looks like you're in bad shape—worse than me."

Sara had to laugh at the elderly woman's comment. "I fell into a manhole—broke my arm and leg and cracked up my pelvic bones."

"You were on television—not you, but the reporter talking about you! You're with the police—an investigator!" Softly, she clapped her hands together and said, "We have a celebrity and I'll get to introduce you!

"And we'll be rehab buddies!" Gracie said as she rolled her chair near the bed. "They really do a great job here—getting us up and moving. I guess you'll move to the institute—this is a sort of kindergarten compared to what they do—you will get the basics—how to transfer from the bed, get around with a wheelchair." A frown puckered Gracie's forehead. "With that arm and leg, you have a lot of work ahead of you."

Sara agreed. Looking at Grissom, she said, "Why don't you go—come back later. Gracie and I will get to know one another."

A little coaxing by both women got him out of his chair and, as he placed a kiss on Sara's forehead, he promised to return in a few hours.

Sara, as a captive audience of one, learned Gracie was a fountain of information—and gossip—as she explained the routines of the facility. "Tell them what you want to eat—not what they send—and we can eat in our room." Gracie made a face, adding, "I don't want to eat in the dining room—if it isn't the old men dribbling peas down their shirts it's the young men wolfing down their food with no manners at all!"

The old lady talked on and on, seemingly unaware that Sara's eyes closed for brief periods, until a response was required. Half asleep, Sara missed something—a question, a sentence that she should have heard.

"Sorry—what did you say?"

Gracie laughed, softly. "I'm keeping you awake, dear! You've had a tiring day and it's not even lunch time. We'll talk later."

"No, no—what was it about the water?"

Gracie laughed again. "Don't drink the water—from the container in the rehab room—take your own!"

"Why?"

Another laugh as the elderly woman whispered, "I think that water is tainted! Those young men are always drinking from it—when I was here before—with my knee—two of them fell over—dead! Another bit the dust last week—I think it's the water!"

Suddenly, confused but interested, Sara asked, "Died? Don't people die here all the time?"

Shrugging narrow shoulders, Gracie said, "Sure they do—most people come here to die, but not those of us in rehab. Especially not the young ones." Her eyes widened as her expression changed to one of mischievous enthusiasm. "Maybe we can find out what killed them!"

For the first time in days, Sara's curiosity was stirred. She asked, "What does everyone say? About the deaths?"

Waving a hand, Gracie whispered, "No one talks about it! They are afraid of the regulators—coming in to investigate. Most of us come and go in a few weeks, but since I was here with my knee and now I've returned, I've heard about all of them." She placed her hand beside her mouth as if they were in a crowded room and she had a secret to share. "The aides will talk but not when anyone is around. That's how I know about the others."

"How many others?"

"At least five—all young men—all here for therapy." Gracie snapped her fingers, adding, "Gone in a flash."

Sara managed to turn enough to face the little woman in the wheelchair. She wasn't going to chase an imaginary rabbit while in rehab but the story of five deaths intrigued her. Restating what Gracie had just said, she asked, "So you think five young men have died because of something in the water in the rehab area? No one has investigated or raised any concern when they died?"

Gracie stuck to her story, saying, "It's a nursing home, honey! Every death here ends up as 'natural causes' or 'heart attack'—the funeral home comes for a pick-up, the doctor signs the death certificate. It's not like someone is committing murder with a gun or a knife—most of us are worn out when we get here!" She held up her hand, raising a finger, "First one I knew about—when I was here with my knee replacement—was around fifty—motorcycle wreck put him here. He had a heart attack." Second finger raised, "He was young—twenties—body builder with a broken leg—had a seizure and died." Third finger: "Don't know about him cause I wasn't here –just heard another one bit the dust."

She raised her index finger and thumb, saying, "Numbers four and five died in the past two weeks—both had heart attacks. Neither one over forty."

Sara asked, "And the doctor just signs off? What about families?"

"Oh, the doctor is always there—he tries to save them, but when the big one happens—doesn't matter where you are, does it?" She shook her head, "As for families—I'm not sure if any of them had close family. Maybe they did, but most of us don't get a lot of visitors here."

Puzzled, Sara asked, "But you returned—why? If you think people are dying in rehab, how can it be good?"

Gracie laughed, "I'm not a guy! It's only the young men that die!" Her eyes narrowed, "You'll see—the therapists are wonderful—they really take good care of us. But something weird is going on for those young men to die—just fall over dead."

A knock at the door interrupted; both women said "Come in" at the same time.

Turning to Sara, Gracie said, "Lunch."

It took several minutes for trays of food to be arranged—Gracie stayed near Sara's bed with a rolling table scooted over the arms of the wheelchair. A similar table was placed across Sara's bed.

Sara was surprised; the tray of food was actually beautiful with a bowl of fresh fruit, a plate of fresh broccoli, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a small milkshake. She said, "This looks great."

Gracie, busy with her own tray, said, "The food is good here—another reason to return." She looked over Sara's tray, saying, "Where's your pork chop?"

"I'm a vegetarian—I eat cheese and eggs but not meat."

Laughing, Gracie said, "I've got a granddaughter who's a vegetarian. She eats a lot of peanut butter."

"So do I."

Silence followed as the two women begin to eat. Sara noticed that Gracie was extremely careful as she ate, cutting food into small pieces, chewing with her mouth closed, delicately dabbing her mouth with the napkin. Busy eating, the older woman did not talk much during the meal except to compliment the food.

When Sara picked up the milkshake, hesitating a few seconds, Gracie said, "Drink it, dear. That's our energy drink—lots of calories that we'll need in rehab!"

Sara laughed, "I'm afraid I'll get fat."

With an impish laugh, Gracie said, "Drink up—I've got a feeling that smart man of yours will love you skinny or fluffy! He's a cutie—nice little butt on him."

Sara nearly choked on her first sip of the milkshake; she had not noticed Gracie checking out Grissom's physical features, especially his backside.

Laughing, Sara agreed, saying, "Yes, he does have a nice butt." Thoughtfully, she watched Gracie drink her own milkshake, realizing the older woman might be more observant about other things, too, such as young men dying in rehab. Yet, she told herself that five young men dying in rehab might not be that unusual.

When Gracie announced it was "nap time", Sara watched with interest as the frail appearing small woman managed to rotate herself into bed almost as easily as one normally moved from one chair to another. Looking forward to the day when she could move herself, Sara picked up her book and managed to read two or three pages before her eyes closed.

_A/N: And more to come...thank you for reading and your reviews! _


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** _Thanks for reading...if you are enjoying the story, let us know! _

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 9**

When Grissom returned, he found a revived Sara. She had taken a short nap and then had been given a real shower by two nursing assistants; one was Benita's cousin, Dona.

"They have this special shower gurney, Gil! Kept me wrapped in warm towels—shampooed my hair. I lay there like a slug and let them scrub—it felt like a spa treatment." Sara laughed, adding, "With a nice, comforting smell of chlorine bleach." Flipping the sheet away from her leg, she pointed to it saying, "And they shaved my leg!" Her hand went to her shirt, "And, I'm wearing my day-time clothes!"

The heavy weight of frustration began to slide from his shoulders when he saw Sara's smile and her leg, the t-shirt and shorts, her damp curling hair. Her smile grew as he placed a pet carrier on her bed. She almost squealed as he unzipped the case, but quickly stifled the sound.

"Gracie is still asleep," she whispered. "Dona said her nap usually lasts for two hours—I don't want to wake her!"

He lifted the small white dog into his hands, saying in a low voice, "Sara, meet Bexar—Bexar, meet your mom!"

As she reached a hand to Bexar, Sara asked, "Is it okay? To bring him in here?"

Grissom nodded. "I checked before I left—dogs are welcome here. They even have therapy dogs who visit." He placed the dog in the crook of Sara's arm. "I'll bring Sally Sue tomorrow."

The small dog responded as a loved pet—nuzzling against Sara as she petted and whispered to him, responding to Grissom's soft commands. As Grissom unpacked additional clothes, Bexar curled in Sara's lap, content to have another human join the family.

When Gracie woke from her nap, she was delighted to meet Bexar, saying no more about young men dying in rehab as she headed to a bingo game before her afternoon rehab session.

The morning of her second day, a frame—or canopy—was set up over Sara's bed and she was shown how to use the equipment to move from bed to chair; quite an accomplishment for a woman who had not moved on her own for days.

Grissom walked in as Sara was completing the task for the third time as a therapist and assistant watched and gave encouragement. Beads of sweat gathered across her forehead; her cheeks radiated a glow he realized had been absent since her accident. As he leaned against the wall and watched, his smile was sincere and deeply heartfelt.

There were times, lately, Grissom thought, when his aggravation with everything surrounding Sara's condition and care had almost overwhelmed his usually unruffled composure. Yet, seeing her, staying with her in the hospital, he had experienced a sensation almost forgotten. The intimacy between them went beyond attraction, beyond admiration for her spirit and intelligence, beyond anything he had experienced with another human.

When he had kissed her, one night in the hospital, it was as if he had unlocked a door somewhere inside himself and walked through it to find a realm where things were different. The world on the other side of the door was brighter, more interesting in every way. He found it difficult to remember why the door had closed yet he acknowledged that he was the one who had pulled it shut.

Pushing aside his thoughts, he watched as Sara and the therapist worked together on a pivot while holding a bar over the bed with one arm. He knew there was pain—her eyes revealed more than strenuous physical effort—even though she kept a smile across her face as she followed the therapist's instructions.

Sara introduced Grissom and the therapist, Rhonda, immediately involved him in their efforts, saying, "Always easier with two!"

After thirty minutes, the session ended.

"We don't want to do too much—not in the beginning," the therapist explained. "I'll be back this afternoon and we'll do this again."

Sara asked, "When can I move around? Leave this room? Go outside?" She waved a hand toward the window, saying, "I'd love to feel the sun on my face!"

Rhonda, a woman who had worked with many patients over her career, laughed. "You know, Sara, I think we've got just what you need." Quickly, she checked to the window. "We have a wheelchair that we don't use often—and you will be the envy of every person on the wing—as in your roommate! She'll want one too."

Clicking a message into her phone, she said, "We'll get you outside today!"

As they waited for several minutes, she outlined the therapy plan for Sara. "It appears slow-going," she said, "for someone your age, but your injuries—especially the leg fracture—need to reach a point to be weight bearing before you stand up."

A light knock signaled the arrival of the assistant, pushing a wheelchair. Immediately, Grissom and Sara noticed the young man was not pushing the wheelchair, but was controlling its forward movement with a small device held in his hand.

"Have you ever played with a remote control car?" The therapist asked.

It did not take long to transfer Sara to the wheelchair and within a few minutes, she was using the handheld remote control to propel herself forward, backward, and in circles. For the first time since his return, Grissom heard the sound of true laughter from his wife.

Rhonda walked with Grissom as Sara used the small remote device to operate the wheelchair. Doors opened automatically as the wheelchair approached. Several of the nursing staff called out encouraging words as Sara passed.

A few minutes later, for the first time since her accident, Sara rolled into the sunshine. "I will never complain about the heat, Gil. Never! It feels incredible to be outside."

The open quadrangle in the center of the facility provided a quiet and safe courtyard for residents and employees to be outside so Sara and Grissom were not alone. Brightly colored umbrellas and a long vine covered pergola provided shade. Sara managed to keep her chair on the paved walkway until they found a vacant bench. No one appeared to take notice of another person in a wheelchair.

The day was not a Vegas scorcher but warm enough that Sara was comfortable wearing her shorts and light-weight shirt. She could not stop smiling as Grissom sat beside her, taking her hand in his.

She said, "I'm so thrilled to be outside—moving on my own." Softly, she laughed, "It's strange, isn't it—we never think about—about simple things like walking and going to the bathroom—and getting a drink of water."

Grissom threaded his fingers with Sara's causing her smile to transform into a broad grin. Her uncast leg bent into an angle as she brought her heel to rest against her thigh. Her simple fluid movements caused Grissom to think of their two dogs stretching in the sun—playful and secure—similar to times he had watched Sara do the same thing at home or on a beach or on a hotel balcony. And, again, he was reminded of what he had missed.

His hand tightened on hers as he said, "I'm sorry, Sara, for all I've done—for all I've caused."

She hushed him with a quiet "ssshhh" whistling between her teeth. "No more, Gil. You are home. It's in the past."

"Oh, Sara, what—what would—if you had not had this accident—I would still be chasing bees around the world! How did I close the door on us?"

Sara realized there was a rare and earnest emotion in his voice and turning her face to his, she said, "Kiss me, Gil." She wrinkled her lips into a pucker and then, before he could kiss her, giggled. "Gil, we—both of us take life entirely too seriously. We want a carefully ordered world in one that fringes on chaos. We want a logical reason for everything—even after all these years, I still look for logic—good and bad reasoning in my work." For a few seconds, there seemed to be a battle between laughter and tears; laughter won.

"Kiss me, dear," she said as her giggles bubbled to the surface. "Let's decide we've apologized—forgiven and forgotten the past months—turn the page." Her hand touched his cheek. "I love you, Gil. You know that."

He smiled his slow, sensual smile, one that sent a flutter of emotions through Sara's body.

He said, "Yes, I do—and I love you, Sara." He kissed her, a slow kiss that gently nibbled at her bottom lip. When he pulled his mouth away from hers, he added, "And I will take very good care of you."

Several minutes passed before they actually parted; he caressed her chin. She played with his hair, longer than she had ever seen but she liked it. He kissed her fingers and then gently raised her fractured arm so he could kiss each finger below the cast.

He said, "Catherine sends her love and she'll be home next week so she'll see you then. Nick and Greg want to bring lunch tomorrow—I wasn't sure, but they insisted. And Sally Sue is at the groomer's now getting prettied up for a visit this afternoon."

When an employee, dressed in the facility's dining room blue uniform, rolled a cart of snacks into the courtyard, a dozen people gathered around.

"I'll get you something—any preferences?" Grissom asked.

"Surprise me."

When he returned with a bottle of juice, a chocolate covered granola bar, and a small carton, he said, "She insisted you needed the milkshake." He handed her a straw and opened the carton.

Sara laughed. "I forgot to tell you—Gracie says not to drink the water in the rehab room—it's causing young men to die." She slurped the milkshake.

Grissom's eyebrows shot skyward; a finger passed over his mouth. "Okay," he stretched the word out. "Why would the water in rehab cause young men to die?"

"Not sure, but she says there have been four or five that she's heard about—by young men she means those under fifty, I think."

"Well, the place doesn't exactly have people here in the best of health, you know. Present company excluded," he added with a smile.

"That's what I thought—just from what I did this morning, I can imagine!" She sighed. "And I get to do it again this afternoon—but at least I'm outside."

When Benita visited Sara later that day, Sara's excitement was still there as she demonstrated her ability to move from bed to chair. Grissom laughed as he held up the remote she had left beside the bed.

"You'll need this!"

Gracie, enjoying Sally Sue's visit, joined in the conversation, saying she was eager to show Sara around the facility and introduce her new roommate to others. As Grissom clipped the leash to the dog and Sara was busy saying "good-bye", it was Benita who Gracie confided in, telling her to bring Sara a bottle for water.

"One of those fancy ones—with a ring on it," the elderly woman whispered as she pointed to a similar bottle tucked beside her.

Puzzled, the nurse asked why and, again, in a conspiring whisper, Gracie said, "The water in the rehab room is bad." A puzzled look from Benita and another, quieter whisper from Gracie, "Those boys drank a lot of water from the container—it's tainted with something."

Benita had been in Gracie's company for less than an hour; kindly, the nurse patted the elderly woman's shoulder, saying, "I'll bring one tomorrow!" She leaned to Gracie's ear and whispered, "We don't want Sara drinking tainted water."

Gracie's hand went to shield her mouth as she whispered to Benita, "No one wants to talk about it—those boys dying—but they know!"

Having passed through an area where a dozen old women were watching _"McMillan & Wife"_ on a large flat screen television, Benita decided Gracie was confusing reality with a forty year old police procedural show. She said, "I'll bring a water bottle for Sara—don't worry!"

A few minutes later, Benita left the room, with a promise to return the next day and, on her way out of the facility, decided to find her cousin, Dona.

_Thank you...more to come!_


	10. Chapter 10

_Enjoy!_

**I Keep on Loving You**

**Chapter 10**

The telephone call was brief but the message had gotten Gil Grissom out of bed, dressed, dogs let outside and back into the house—all in less than twenty minutes. Not about Sara—not directly; he thanked God as he drove to the quickly scheduled meeting in an unfamiliar coffee shop. He missed the narrow place of business the first time and doubled back, driving through a parking lot to get to the place.

It wasn't everyone who could get him out of bed at dawn, but when Benita had told him she wanted to "talk to him about what was happening at Red Rocks" and "this may be important—or not", he rolled out of bed, wide-awake and half-dressed before ending the call. He remembered Benita's cousin was the nursing assistant who bathed Sara—washed her hair, shaved her leg, helped to dress Sara. He had not met the woman but Sara had praised her and looked forward to her daily shower.

He parked in front of the coffee shop, no logo or brand name on the sign, just 'Madear's Coffee"; several other cars were parked in an otherwise empty strip mall. The world is being taken over by strip malls, he thought; at least this one had no vacant store fronts and wasn't filled with pay-day loans and pawn shops.

Inside, there was no line as he ordered coffee, easily spotting Benita—corner booth, and another woman with her. The cousin, he thought, and had no recollection of her name. The two women had similar appearances of high cheekbones, dark eyes and hair, but Grissom recognized a mixed parentage in Benita's cousin. And when the cousin greeted him, he heard no trace of an accent.

Both women welcomed him with easy smiles, asking how he was doing as they passed sugar and cream containers his way.

"Sara looked good yesterday," Benita added.

Grissom nodded, saying, "She is—she's looking forward to therapy." Glancing at the other woman, he said, "And getting a good shower." He held out his hand. "I'm Gil Grissom."

"Dona Davis," a laugh, "I know who you are. You are one lucky man—got a sweet wife."

"Yes, I do." He stirred his coffee while a moment of awkward silence followed. He waited.

Benita was first to speak. She reached into a very large brown bag beside her and pulled out a bundle of folded papers. Pushing them across the table, she said, "Dona has something to say—took me all night to convince her that someone needs to know about this."

Before his hand touched the papers, Dona's hand covered them. Briefly, her dark eyes met Grissom's before shifting to Benita as she said, "Benita says to trust you—and I don't know where this will go, but I've worked at Red Rocks since it opened. Twenty-seven years ago when it was a small nursing home, I got a job as an aide." Her eyes came back to Grissom. "It's not a fancy job—I make good money because I've been there a long time—and most people—those who are not residents—never see me because I'm part of the bath team."

Benita interrupted, "She's head of their bath team, Dr. Grissom. Supervises fourteen people and she sees nearly everyone in the nursing home on a regular basis—when its bath time." She made a soft chuckle and crossed her arms. "You heard Sara bragging about her shower—that's Dona's work! She provides dignity to the process."

Grissom had no doubt of Benita's confirmation.

Dona waved a hand. "The thing is—the facility and the employees are more than a place I work. They are family—to me it's like a big family." Her fingers slipped between the papers as she continued, "I've written down all I know—we—everyone there knows something is wrong. Been going on for nearly a year—enough to be long past having a streak of bad luck."

When Benita made a low cough, Dona glanced at her cousin.

"Well, you know what I mean—Dr. Grissom, I'm sure you've seen a run of bad luck when you worked law enforcement—sometimes it just happens that way. Sometimes we'll go weeks without a death in the facility, then suddenly it's three in a week." She pushed the papers in front of Grissom. "Every morning we have a 'stand-up meeting' of the charge nurses, supervisors, dietary, admissions, social worker, administrator to talk about anything that's happened during the shift. I'm there because of the bath team, so I take notes, listen, know what's happening so I can take it back to my team.

"The first one who died—well, we all thought it was something like a blood clot—real fast—he literally fell over in rehab." She tapped a sheet of paper. "I've put down what I remember but I know there's been at least nine." Her eyes traveled to Grissom's again. "Nine men to young to die—they were healthy—healthy—except for needing rehab and should have walked out of here but they didn't."

Grissom did not know what to say yet thoughtfully raked a hand across his face before saying, "You believe nine men died at Red Rocks who should have lived—are you talking about a serial killer? Someone at the facility is causing the deaths? And only men?" Suddenly, he remembered what Sara had said. "The water—that's why Gracie was going on about the water in rehab."

Dona nodded her head. "No one believes it could be someone—you just don't want to think that about people you've known for years!" A slight grin, "Yeah, I knew Gracie was onto the deaths—this is her second time to be here for rehab and she's a smart lady. She thinks it's the water cooler." Slowly, Dona shook her head. "It's not the water—believe me, everything and everyone who works rehab has been checked, questioned, but all on the hush-hush."

"Why haven't the police been called?"

Quiet laughter came from both women. Benita said, "First and foremost, you don't want the state and federal regulators to find out any of this! Second," she nodded at Dona, "what's the proof? People die every day—guns, knives, baseball bats! And in a nursing home—not like most of them are making long-term plans for vacation. Third—every death has a physician there—calls it a heart attack. One had a seizure and then died, right? So who's gonna question?"

Grissom nodded his understanding as he tried to hide his confusion.

"It's weird, Dr. Grissom, suspicious, a gut feeling, something wrong and no one knows what to do. I know the last three guys were healthy—I don't think any of them were taking regular medications. They brought in crash carts, doctor, nurses—but they were gone. The therapist who is working with Sara—Rhonda has been here for years and she's good—she said the last one was dead before he hit the floor."

"No autopsy? What do families think?" Grissom asked. He was curious, but he also knew the high risk posed to healthy people who had catastrophic injuries.

Dona's eyebrows rose. "There hasn't been an autopsy on any of them! The doc says the heart stopped—heart attack—families are devastated, but their son or husband is dead! He wasn't shot or stabbed—he died in a health care facility! Everything was done that could be done—you ever heard of malpractice? Not here—not for these guys! The administrator goes to the funerals, sends flowers, everyone is so sadden by the loss of your fine husband or son." Her eyes narrowed. "If any of this gets back to the administrator, my job is history."

Benita spoke up, "Dona thinks if you read about these—maybe something will jump out—maybe you'll see something no one else has thought of."

"Sara," he whispered, "Sara is there—if this is…" He stopped, leaving his thoughts unspoken.

Dona reached over and patted his hand, saying "Sara will be fine! She's female for one thing. For another—she has Gracie looking after her—and me! These guys died in rehab—one on the treadmill, another on weights. Sadly, she's not in great shape—got a long way to go before she's doing much in rehab."

Grissom did not attempt to hide his distress.

Benita said, "Sara will be there a week, two at the most, before she's transferred back to the institute."

Making an audible sigh, Grissom, trying to wrap his mind around what he had heard, asked, "What's the connection between the hospital's rehab facility and Red Rocks? Who's in charge?"

"The institute—fancy name for expensive rehab—was set up by the ortho docs at the hospital. So they could walk over and check on patients. After it was built, everyone realized a lot of patients—like Sara—needed more nursing care for longer periods of time before they could handle extensive rehab." Benita looked at Dona, asking, "Who was that tennis player at your place? Tina something—anyway, she blew out her knee in some big tournament and had surgery at the hospital. Poor thing, she couldn't get herself to the bathroom after four days—so she came here for a week."

Dona took up the explanation. "Red Rocks has always been a nursing home, added the rehab wing several years ago and most of the patients were elderly with knee replacements or hip fractures—that kind of thing. About two years ago, the administrator made an agreement with the hospital to get the patients who were not ready to go to the fancy place…"

Benita interrupted, saying, "Hot shots across town."

"Yes, I've heard they have all kinds of stuff over there—but the guys who died—they were not on the list to go to the institute. They were here for basic therapy." Dona pressed her lips together in thought for several seconds. "I don't think the ones who died came from your hospital, Benita. They came from different hospitals, different doctors." Several long seconds passed in silence before she said, "Which brings up an interesting idea—the docs—the ones Benita works with—they don't know about these deaths. It's not talked about here—no one announces 'another one died yesterday'. All deaths are reported in stand-up but we don't discuss—we all know it but we don't mention it except between each other. I wrote down what I could remember—those guys were ready to walk out, ready to go on living!"

For a few minutes, the three remained quiet. Grissom stirred his coffee again, grown cold as the women had talked. Benita waved at the woman at the counter who immediately approached the table with the coffee pot. Quickly, Grissom swallowed enough of the cooled brew and nodded for a refill.

"I don't know what to do," Dona said softly. "Red Rocks is a good place—people really care about our residents. These guys were not there for long term, just a few weeks."

Grissom, out of habit, passed his hand across his face in gesture old friends would say indicated he was "thinking", and he was.

The two women stirred coffee.

Their silence was broken by the sudden arrival of the woman who had brought the coffee. She put a white plate on the table saying, "Ya'll been here a while—biscuits are hot—on the house." She smiled, "So's the ham—I'll see y'all again."

Five biscuits as large as Grissom's palm filled the plate. Each one had been split open for an equally large slice of ham—thick and dripping with hot grease.

Dona passed Grissom and Benita napkins. She said, "I'm all for some good food." She wrapped a napkin around one of the biscuits. "Anyone want jam or jelly?"

Grissom did the same, took a bite and chewed for several minutes. "Okay, I'll read your notes, but no promises of anything." He lowered his head in Dona's direction as he said, "Your administrator needs to call authorities—suggest the deaths are suspicious and ask for help."

"He won't—but I'll promise you this—if you'll back me up, after you read what I've written, I'll go to him. Put my job on the line—maybe get one of the nurses, too—and talk to him. It's—it is like mildew in the shower—keeps growing unless you clean it out." Sadly, she shook her head. "I just can't believe someone is doing this."

They ate the biscuits in awkward silence at first, but when one of the women made a smacking sound, both laughed.

"These are some good biscuits," Benita said as she laughed.

"Good ham," Grissom added.

Benita laughed again, teasing him with, "Yeah, Sara's a vegetarian—better brush those pearly whites before you kiss her this morning!"

After they finished the ham and biscuits, all five of them—Grissom ate two and the women shared the last one—Grissom and Dona exchanged phone numbers. He placed a generous tip on the table as they left the shop, opening the door and stepping outside to another long sunny day in Vegas.

Waving as the women drove away, he pushed the air-conditioning higher inside the car and unfolded the hand written pages, noticing Dona had written about half a page on several of the men—the first three or four, and had written a page on the last five. Making a quiet grunt as he glanced over the pages of notes, he decided Dona had known for quite some time that something unusual was causing young men to die in rehab at Red Rocks Rehab and Recovery Care Center.

_A/N: Can two women be wrong? Gracie isn't a gossipy old lady-or is she? And what can Dona know? More to come and- Thank you for reading. And for reviewing! If you haven't sent us a comment or review, do so, please. Let us know what you think! More to come! _


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Thank you for reading! And a special thanks to those who review! _

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 11 **

Gil Grissom knew he had a decision to make—actual several decisions. He had read and re-read the handwritten pages from Dona Davis—an aide with twenty-plus years of working in the same facility, and the kind of person who was reliable; she made an expert, unshakable witness, the kind most often overlooked when young detectives and young lawyers were seeking details. She heard things; she knew things and she was worried enough to share her concerns with a stranger.

His primary decision was—should he tell Sara? And after that, what should he do? Should he simply ask—the facility's administrator, a man he had met briefly when Sara was admitted—or ask the therapist?

Folding all the papers together, he pushed away from the table and gave a low whistle; both dogs perked their ears. By the time he stood, the dogs were at his feet, patiently waiting for their leashes. Walking a dog was one of the easiest ways to think, he had learned, and he needed to think.

By mid-morning he was in the rehab center, watching Sara and the therapist work through a routine movement that would have been easily accomplished in a normal situation. By the look on Sara's face, it took all the strength she could muster yet she managed to keep a smile plastered across her face. Her chin trembled with effort as she succeeded in completing the transfer.

When he had arrived, he noticed a new water bottle beside her bed—the promised 'gift' from Benita, delivered by Dona earlier in the morning.

"One more time," the therapist encouraged, "and then we'll have a rest."

Sara puffed air, relaxed for a few seconds, and grabbed the bar again. Softly, she laughed, "I'm glad we'll both get a rest after this."

Rhonda replied, "Right, you'll get a rest—I have another one waiting!"

"Can I go outside again? Two friends are bringing lunch today."

Nodding as she guided Sara's move, "Outside is good—anytime." The therapist whispered, "I know it can be tough in here—everyone as old as your granny! Once you get to the rehab area—maybe tomorrow we'll get you down there and in compression boots—you'll have more to do. Right now we have four others who are not elderly residents and we try to schedule all of you at the same time."

Grissom suddenly saw an opportunity. He asked, "Do you have many younger 'residents' here?"

"Not many but we have our share—a few like Sara come here to regain strength and transfer to the institute. Some come because this is what insurance pays for—basic 'get-back-on-your-feet' rehab. By scheduling similar ages at the same time—it makes it easier in a lot of ways."

When Grissom's eyebrow lifted, the therapist chuckled, "Imagine playing Lady Gaga and Katy Perry for the Sinatra set. Or if we have 'Game of Thrones' on the television instead of 'Hart to Hart'—means world war three—or at least a major battle."

"Understand," Grissom said. His mouth twitched as Sara completed the exercise. Determination did not begin to define her efforts, he thought; Sara's fortitude for what life had given her was part of her character. He stepped closer to the bed but kept hands in his pockets. Sara had given explicit instructions—no help unless she requested it.

He asked, "So, you have a lot of success—with—with people Sara's age?"

Rhonda smiled, "We do. Sara is going to be fine—a year from now, this will be a dim memory." She massaged Sara's leg as she talked. "The compression boots will really help with strength."

Grissom pointed a finger at the pink water bottle, saying, "I'm sure you've heard about the water in rehab."

The therapist shook her head, a hint of a smile appearing, before saying, "Word travels fast—Gracie filled you in on the tainted water."

"And the young men who didn't make it out of rehab." Grissom's eyebrow raised in inquiry.

Rhonda had finished the massage of Sara's leg and slowly turned to the tablet used for charting. "That news travels too, I guess." Glancing at Sara before turning to Grissom, she said, "I know Sara's a crime investigator—so were you—we heard—before retirement. Several of us have talked about telling you—see what you think. It's been odd, that's for sure. No reason those guys should have died—they were all in good health—as good as one can be and be here."

For several long seconds, no one spoke; Rhonda's eyes seemed to go everywhere but to Grissom or Sara.

Finally, looking at Sara, ever so slightly, she shrugged. "We all know that something is happening—or maybe not." Sighing, she continued, "Believe me, we've all looked—all the therapists, the administrator, the director of nurses—quietly—if they really did die of something like heart attacks, which is possible—we don't want a news nightmare!"

Surprised at the turn of conversation, Sara asked, "What do you think happened? How long since you noticed the first one?"

Rhonda busied herself for several minutes with folding and smoothing a sheet over Sara's legs. She said, "I really shouldn't be talking like this—but maybe—what we need are fresh eyes. I—I can't give you details—like show you charts for these guys. That would really set off alarms, but I'd say at least ten months ago, maybe a year, since the first one died. He was young—early thirties, had a motorcycle accident. Supposed to be here three to four weeks and died several days before his scheduled discharge."

"Who profited from his death?" Grissom asked.

His question caused Rhonda to make a sad chuckle. "Ironic—no one. His parents lived in Oklahoma and had returned home—because he was doing so well. When he died, they had him cremated and shipped home. And at the time, we all thought it was so sad—never seeing their son again, but cremation was cheaper."

Contemplation in his voice, Grissom said, "We're already into violating a few health care regulations—do you think you could get a list of names?"

Rhonda's eyes widen. "I can—but if anyone finds out—well, you can imagine."

Assurance given that no one needed to know—at least not while Grissom did some basic gathering of information—and whatever he found would be given to her, Rhonda charted a few notes, and made two promises—the list of names and the remote-controlled wheelchair would be in Sara's room before noon. As the therapist left, Gracie returned from her morning activities.

Making a quick air-kiss in Grissom's direction, Sara let her head sink into the pillow. No privacy or intimate minutes with Gracie in the room, she had learned. Gracie wasn't clueless, but she certainly could be tactless when it came to privacy.

Grissom chuckled, leaned over and kissed Sara. He whispered, "More later."

Rolling her wheelchair to the foot of Sara's bed, excitement in her voice, the older woman went into great detail about her morning rehab and then a sing-along with a guitar playing visitor. "You should come! It's so much fun and we can always use another voice."

Sara wasn't going to attend a sing-along, but she agreed with Gracie that such an event had to be great entertainment. Then, she added, "My friends are bringing lunch for us. Would you join us? Outside—and it's vegetarian. I think you'll like it."

It took Gracie less than thirty seconds to agree. Sara quickly sent a message to Nick; she wanted her two friends to meet her roommate. She also knew if she shared lunch with Gracie, the added excitement would mean a new topic of conversation and, hopefully, a longer nap—and Sara had no intention of taking a nap while Grissom looked over the list of names.

She watched in amusement as Grissom talked with Gracie; she had been surprised when he had mentioned the water and then the young men. Even more startling was Rhonda's response—an admission of suspicions or fears. Sara's gut told her there was a something going on; perhaps not murder but something was happening to young men in rehab. She could see it in her husband's eyes as he had listened to Rhonda—he thought so too.

_A/N: It's great fun and interesting to read your thoughts-do they have a crime? Is there a serial killer? So far, no one has guessed what caused the deaths-but now we have another person at the facility who is willing to talk! More to come...Thanks for reading! And reviews provide encouragement for more stories! _


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: A long chapter for you! Thanks for reading and your reviews!_

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 12 **

When Nick and Greg arrived with lunch, they missed the drive for the rehab entrance and created quite a commotion that would be talked about for days when they came into the facility by the entrance to the long-term care nursing home. In the front lobby, a dozen women, some in wheel chairs, immediately noticed the gun on Nick's hip and made assumptions.

One, surprisingly spry as she pushed her walker into his path practically tripping him as he passed her chair, reached for Nick's sleeve as she said: "What's going on? Are you the police?"

Another one, crowding behind Greg, said, "You don't have a gun. What's in the bags?"

A third joined in, "Is it old man Thomas? What's his name—Hugh Thomas? Did he finally take a lick at Benny Monroe? They been itching for a fight for months! Which one is it?" This woman, less than five feet tall, managed to get between Greg and Nick and, with only a walking cane to keep her upright, she could maneuver easier than the others.

Greg, carrying lunch in two large white bags, lifted them shoulder high. "Lunch," he said, "we're bringing lunch! No crime—just lunch!"

Laughing, Nick added, "He's right—just here to visit our friend. She's in rehab here. There's no crime!"

"Well, there will be," said a fourth woman, sucking on a nasal oxygen tube, as she wheeled in front of the guys. "Benny and Hugh Thomas have been trying to fight for weeks." She huffed several breaths before she continued. "One day Hugh's going to take him out."

The first woman backed away several feet. "Well, when they do, we want you boys to come out! We don't get many handsome guys out here!" She held up a scrawny arm, adding, "By the way, what are you two doing on Thursday afternoon? We could use you at our weekly dance."

Greg appeared uneasy as several more women surrounded them, all talking, asking questions. Nick, more comfortable surrounded by elderly women than his co-worker, easily laughed off their jumble of questions. "Ladies, ladies," he said, "We are here for lunch today—only lunch!" He shuffled backward saying, "Just point us the way to rehab."

He heard someone ask, "Who's your friend?"

"Sara—Sara Sidle."

The woman with the oxygen spoke up, "That's Gracie's new roommate. We heard about her—she fell in a manhole, didn't she? Talk about her time—who else falls into a manhole?" Turning to one of the women seated in a chair, she said, "I think we should interview Sara for the newsletter! Everyone would love to hear her story—and she's a detective with the police."

Greg finally found his voice. He said, "Crime scene investigator—Sara's a CSI—not a detective. And waiting for lunch!" He raised the large white bags a little higher. "If we could just get there—to the patio—I'm sure Sara would—would appreciate—be interested in your newsletter."

Suddenly, a much younger woman appeared at the door of an office. "Okay, ladies! Hello, gentlemen—can I help?"

Nick, laughing as he extradited himself from the walkers, wheelchairs, and canes belonging to half a dozen white, silver, and blue-haired ladies, asked, "Where might we find Sara Sidle?"

The woman waved her hand, saying "Follow me."

Greg's relief was obvious as he side-stepped around the buzzing women, following the younger woman. He left the polite chit-chat to Nick as the three walked along a long hallway with doors every twelve feet or so and a number of people dozing in wheelchairs positioned in doorways. An occasional glance into an open door showed a bedridden person; Greg thought of the many bad situations he had seen and realized this might be worse.

They passed through several double doors; Gradually, Greg realized a change had occurred. People, while mostly elderly, were moving around, albeit with walkers, but they were saying "hello" and cracking jokes with each other.

"Sara is in the third room on the right," the woman said.

Nick knocked, heard an "enter" and pushed the door open.

The two men had not been to visit Sara since her move, so it was several minutes before greetings and introductions were finished; several more minutes passed as Sara called for assistance in moving to the wheelchair. Greg and Nick, who had last seen Sara when she was barely able to move, watched and encouraged as she used the overhead bar and was guided into the wheelchair by two therapy aides. Another few minutes passed as she worked the remote to point the chair in the right direction.

Nick made several good-natured teasing comments about her long-time driving skills but finally the group followed Gracie as she led them outside. A few employees were eating lunch in a far corner, but otherwise the courtyard was empty and they chose a table shaded by flowering vines. Grissom moved chairs to the table as Nick and Greg unpacked their bags.

With much fanfare and flourish, they laid out the food, describing the contents of each container before it was opened.

Sara knew they had given thought to each food, most of it easily served and eaten. Fruit kabobs with strawberries, banana, and kiwi with a creamy sweet dip were placed before Sara and Gracie as approval seemed required for the other food to appear.

"I could eat just these!" Sara exclaimed as she lifted one to her mouth.

Nick shook his head saying, "You need more calories than that, Sara! And this should help!" He lifted a clear container from a bag.

"My favorite!"

Grissom took the container, laughing as he said, "One of her favorites! How much of this stuff can you eat in a week?"

"I love their mac salad," Sara laughed. She nodded toward Gracie. "See what you think, Gracie. It has everything in it but the kitchen sink."

"And no meat," added Greg.

Sara was busy eating chunks of fruit Grissom was pulling from the kabob when Nick pulled another container out. An impish smile broke across Greg's face as he said, "You think the mac salad is your favorite but wait until you taste these."

Nick lifted the top off, grinning from ear to ear. "At your service, madam—spring rolls with your favorite peanut sauce."

Sara's mouth fell open; Gracie was busy eating macaroni salad but her eyes popped wide. "With avocado?" She asked.

"Of course," Nick said as he placed one of the spring rolls on a small plate. "Greg, pass everyone one of those drinks!"

Sara's nose twitched as Greg lifted cups from one of the bags. She said, "I smell watermelon."

Greg handed her a large white cup, fitting a straw into the slot of its lid. "Just for you—we got three watermelon coconut flavored and two lemon raspberry."

"I'll take a lemon raspberry," Gracie chimed in. "I'm surprised you got through the lobby with all this good food! Wait til I tell the girls—but I'm eating first!"

When Greg snickered, the older woman laughed, saying, "You better believe you wouldn't get a bite of mac salad if any of those women knew what I'm eating! Its roast beef and potatoes and carrots today coming out of the kitchen—not that it's not good, but this is so much better!"

"Well, Miz Gracie," Nick drawled in a seldom heard Texas twang, "you eat all you want—we brought plenty!"

Grissom was helping Sara, dipping a spring roll into peanut sauce as she attempted to balance fruit, macaroni salad, and the large drink.

Waving her fork, Sara said, "Oh, this is so good!"

Gracie had no problems with her plate of food as she tucked in, occasionally voicing polite sounds of satisfaction.

The two women ate; the men talked and ate occasionally. When Gracie declared she could not eat another bite and pushed her plate away, Nick pulled a small package out of one of the bags.

He said, "We have dessert!"

Opening the box, he displayed a tray of beautiful French pastries—madelines, meringues, and macarons—in a rainbow of pale colors and none larger than poker chip.

"Ahhhh," both women gushed.

Sara cried, "Now you'll make me cry!" She knew these had come from a French bakery inside one of the big casinos. The guys hated going to the place because it was always overrun with tourists, but it was definitely the most authentic place for the delicate desserts she loved.

Quickly deflecting her emotions to a safe topic, Nick started talking about his dog, Sara's dog, and then added Bezar, the smallest of the dogs, to his tale of dog walking. He had Sara and Gracie laughing with his story as both women sampled the dessert box.

Sara noticed Grissom and Greg were head-to-head in a quiet conversation; instinct told her Greg was being recruited.

The third time Gracie attempted to hide her yawn, Sara said, "Gracie, do you want Nick or Greg to help you get to the room?" Glancing at Greg, she teased, "Greg will be more than happy to see you to your room."

Nick, pleased to see Sara's good-nature had returned, jumped up, saying, "I'll be happy to escort you, Miz Gracie." He leaned beside the elderly woman's ear and whispered, "You remind me of my grandmother."

With that comment, the two left with Nick pushing the wheelchair; Gracie obviously enjoying the attention of the younger man.

As soon as they were out of hearing, Sara asked, "What have you two been whispering about—like I can't guess!"

With a shrug, Grissom admitted, "Greg's going to look up names I get from Rhonda."

"You are not worried, are you Sara? I mean—I don't know what I mean—since it's only males that seem to be dying too young," Greg said and quickly changed the subject. Nodding toward the departing Gracie, he added, "I like Gracie, but those women in the lobby—sort of gave me the hibbie-jibbies."

Sara said, "Gracie is a good roommate—and I'm not worried. I sleep, rest, and work on moving myself out of bed." She glanced at Grissom who was cleaning the lunch debris from the table. "And occasionally Gil and I get to talk."

"Not much privacy," Grissom said. "But you are here to gain strength." He reached over and gently caressed Sara's shoulder before brushing her hair away from her face. His eyes stayed on Sara's as he said, "I was a fool, Greg. Don't follow my example when you find the right one." Leaning over, he kissed her forehead.

Greg was rendered speechless by this show of affection from his former supervisor whose reticent personality was legendary in the lab. He cleared his throat and quickly gathered the remaining trash, asking, "Want to keep your drinks?"

"Yes, please," Sara said. "Best drink I've had all day!"

A few minutes later, Nick returned, reporting that he and Gracie were becoming great friends. "I might have to return for that dance we heard about," he said with a smug smile.

Before any of them could mentioned the deaths in rehab, the small beeper attached to Sara's shirt chirped several times.

"What's that?" Greg asked. With a laugh, he added, "It reminds me of the time Ecklie was going to keep track of all the lab techs by giving us a beeper!"

"It's my shower time," Sara explained. "The bath team sends a message so I'll know they will be in my room in fifteen minutes. It works both ways—I can message a nurse or my nursing assistant and they message me."

For ten minutes, the friends talked; deaths of young men were not mentioned as Nick and Greg caught Sara up on lab gossip and heard of her progress—little as it was, it was more than she had been doing for days.

"Your substitute stayed with us for three shifts," Greg reported. "Now we have a rotating person…"

"And you know how that works," Nick added.

Staying outside as long as possible before her scheduled shower, Sara extracted promises of return visits. "You don't have to bring food and you don't have to stay long—and come in the rehab entrance. Much less traumatic," she said as she laughed. "It's not a bad place—actually it's pretty nice when it comes to being seventy-five percent helpless!"

As Sara worked the remote control and got the chair turned in the right direction, Grissom gave Nick and Greg a silent signal to stay in the courtyard. A few minutes later, he returned.

"Doesn't she look great?" He asked, a smile forming across his face as he turned a chair to face them.

Greg glanced at Nick. The two men had talked about Sara after she left; he waited for Nick to answer.

"Grissom, Sara seems very positive, very upbeat—she's—she's okay about being here," Nick said, a brief grin forming on his face. It was quick-lived as a thoughtful frown followed. "But, Gris, Sara's—Sara's so pale—she's so thin. Did you see what she ate? Four bites of fruit—barely a spoonful of salad—a bite of the spring roll, and two cookies. She seems—I don't know how to say this—she seems overly cheerful."

The smile disappeared from Grissom's face; his hand swept across his face. And suddenly, Greg knew his former supervisor was fighting seldom seen emotions.

Sighing, Grissom said, "She loved you two coming today." He paused, wiping his face again. "She's getting better—it's—it's just a long way to go. The meds are part of the cheerful demeanor—the physicians strongly recommended an anti-depressant just to keep her from getting discouraged."

Immediately, Greg said, "Don't blame her—I'd be depressed beyond words if I were here!"

Nick studied Grissom's face for a long moment. "And what about these guys who have died here? What's that all about? Is she safe—I mean—she's defenseless!"

"I don't know what has gone on with these guys—nine men, maybe more, in relative good health. Two employees here have—have approached me, asking if I'd look at them—unofficially, just review what they remember. On the surface—I'd be guessing if I said anything—but with traumatic injuries, there is always the possibility of blood clots." He nodded to Greg, saying, "If you can do a routine background check on the names, I can see if there is anything obvious that connects them prior to coming here."

"And it gives Sara something to do—other than therapy and listening to Gracie every day," Greg added.

Grissom chuckled, "That's true."

Nick said, "You know we'll do anything—anything we can for Sara. And for you, Gris, we'll help any way we can. You don't have to do everything!"

Nodding his head, Grissom was quiet for several minutes. His eyes downcast, he spoke, so softly that Nick and Greg inclined heads in his direction. "I owe her so much—so much more than I can give her. She brought me to life—you have no idea—she's been my heart from ten minutes after we met. And, I almost destroyed her—I knew better—my mother's disappointment in me was there the day she died—with Sara sitting by her bedside. It was me—my own selfish ways—with thoughts of my own making that kept me away.

"It all goes back to—to—I thought I was too old—it took me—it took Sara a long time to convince me that our age difference didn't matter. But I still had doubts, especially when I was away from her." He made a sad groan, glancing at the two men. "Did you really think it was honorable for an old man to take advantage of a much younger woman's affections? Does a woman want to get romantically involved with a man who would most likely become a burden?"

Nick grunted, saying, "I don't think age has crap to do with love, Gris."

A slight lifting of his mouth occurred as Grissom said, "I know that—in my—my own way, I know Sara doesn't care—she never cared how old I was. She just loved me—and it was my fault that I put her through such misery for months on end!" His hand splayed in a powerless gesture. "All the hours since I returned, she's been nothing but optimistic—even in pain, she's so determined." His hand came to the table in a fist. "I've promised I'll do whatever I can—whatever it takes—for her to get well. To start over—to give us another chance."

When his quiet outburst ended, Nick and Greg remained quiet; both men remembered another time when Sara had been a victim, kidnapped by a serial killer, and Grissom had been like a mad-man on a singular task.

Finally, Nick said, "Grissom, we've all known—we knew before you did—that Sara never had eyes for anyone but you, man! She doesn't care about age—she only cares about you—she wants you to love her as much as she loves you!"

Grissom sighed, "I made a mess of the best thing I've ever had—and I'm determined to set things right. I will be here every day, doing anything I can to make Sara happy—to get her well—and right now, I feel pretty damn useless."

"Well, we all do," agreed Greg. "If you think coming here will help, I'll be here every day. Heck, I'll come in the middle of the night!"

"Why can't you take her home? Set up therapy and care there?" Nick asked.

Shaking his head, Grissom said, sadness in his voice, "Insurance—she has to be an in-patient to be admitted into the rehab institute—and that's the best place in the state—in three states. If she went home, she'd end up with a much longer rehab. And," he sighed, "she's making progress—slow as it is."

Finally, Grissom smiled, saying, "She says she sleeps well—I think one of her meds relaxes her so she can sleep and its pretty quiet here after nine o'clock."

"I'll bring her dog—both of them—all you have to do is say the word," Nick said.

"Thanks, guys, this means so much—lunch, getting her to laugh. Hopefully, she'll keep improving—and gain a little weight. She's dragging around ten pounds of weight with the casts and metal plates."

Greg asked, "How long does her bath take?"

Another grin developed; Grissom said, "That's the highlight of her day—takes about forty-five minutes and she always feels better afterwards."

Just then, the automatic doors opened and Rhonda appeared. She waved and approached the table. After quick introductions, she slipped an envelope to Grissom at the same time she asked about Sara. In a few minutes, she walked on, to doors on the opposite side of the courtyard.

"Okay, guys, we have names," Grissom said as he pulled a single page of paper from the envelope. Unfolding the page, he glanced at eleven names along with two dates for each name. "She gave us birthdates and death dates."

Greg said, "We'll take that—and get to work. By tomorrow, we may know something—or at least more than we now know."

The three men talked for another half hour about local politics, the lab, the sheriff, and their friend, Catherine Willows, before the doors opened again and Sara, damp hair curling around her face, returned, this time with a large, dark-skinned woman introduced as Dona, as Sara added "the best bath-giver in the universe!"

The two visitors left a short while later, Grissom guiding them the rehab entrance where they chose to trek around the building avoiding the lobby of the nursing home.

"I'm going in early tonight," Greg said as he touched the pocket containing the list of names.

Nick agreed, "I'll meet you there. With two of us checking, it shouldn't take long."

"First blush—what do you think?" Greg asked.

"About the deaths? Who knows? I think Grissom is more curious than worried." Quietly, Nick asked, "What'd you think of Grissom? Think he's learned his lesson?"

Greg laughed. "I will never pretend to understand Grissom! It's sad—more than that—it's tragic that Sara had to nearly die for him to return." He saw Nick's inquiring glance and continued. "You know it's true."

Smiling, Nick said, "Let it go, Greg. He's back, Sara's happy." Good-naturedly, he elbowed his friend and co-worker, saying, "Maybe Grissom needed a ton of bricks—Sara almost dying—before he came to his senses." A grin spread across his face as he added, "Maybe you need to speed things along—before you get too old!"

_A/N: Again, thank you! _


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: A new chapter...moving on with Sara's rehab! _

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 13**

Sara stared at the ceiling above her bed, her gaze traveling back and forth along the shadows; back and forth, back and forth. At least there were no cracks—just flat white paint—and the shadows changed with daybreak. She did not have to check the clock on the wall to know it was several hours before sunrise. Working night shift for years had set her internal clock to recognize three AM as well as most people knew three PM.

For a while, she lay in bed, thinking. Some of her best thoughts came in the hour after she woke—always had, she thought. She knew her rehab was moving slowly; another week had been added to her stay at Red Rocks.

With a huge effort, she sat up. Rehab was paying off; six days into it and she could pull herself up, move around, swing her legs off the bed, but then she needed help. The fractured leg prevented her from supporting her weight; the arm in a cast meant she could not use crutches. Compression boots were helping her legs recover from extended immobility; she was spending four to five hours a day in rehab but her body felt as soft as the pudding on her dinner tray. For a moment, the room spun around, then stabilized—a side effect of restrictive movement for so many days.

And now her weight had become a big issue; even with high calorie milkshakes three times a day, she wasn't regaining weight. Her physicians studied her medical records, the dietitian visited daily, the nurses met; so far nothing had caused an increase in pounds. A change in medications was expected to increase her appetite—maybe it was working because she was hungry.

Reaching for the beeper, she tapped a message for an aide. Far fewer people worked the night shift in the facility than during the day—a situation she had not realized until she had a change in meds. Almost immediately, she had gone from sleeping nine or ten hours at night to her 'normal' former sleep habits. She slept three or four hours, woke for two or three hours, and then she'd sleep for two more hours.

And that's how she had gotten to know the employees of the night shift. The staff worked—charting, checking on patients, setting up schedules for the next day—but there was 'down time' when the quietness of the place led to tedious boredom.

When the night nurse and two nursing aides discovered Sara had worked the 'grave' shift for years, they immediately welcomed her as a kindred spirit. And by the second night of sitting at the nurse's station, Sara was hearing more gossip about everyone—employees and patients—than she had thought possible, which caused her to think she might find out something about the men who had died while in rehab.

Tonight, they had news for Sara.

"First, your arm cast is going to be changed for a new one—state of the art, lightweight, ventilated—I've seen photos of some, but never on anyone" the nurse announced as soon as Sara arrived at the desk.

Sara held up the cast on her arm, asking, "You mean this is gone? Will I be able to use crutches?"

The nurse shook her head, saying, "Not sure about the crutches—but this thing is supposed to be the latest thing out. And," she gestured with both hands, "Surprise! Later today, you're getting a private room!"

"Double bed," one of the aides added, "With a sofa! And—you're going to like this part—that cute hubby can spend the night with you!"

"No hanky-panky," the second aide said with an exaggerated wink. "Or at least tape a 'Do not disturb' sign on the door!" The big woman made a mock shudder, laughing as she said, "I don't want to walk in on no intimate time!"

Sara's smile showed surprise as she said, "I didn't think it would happen!"

The same aide pretended Sara's comment meant something else. She said, "We get hanky-panky all the time, honey! Half a dozen old geezers get Viagra on demand in the nursing home—and they are always prowling around for a willing woman." She narrowed her eyes as she continued, saying, "And they don't pretend to close the door! Proud of all that grunting and panting going on, they are!"

"We keep an eye on them—they are not coming into rehab on our watch! Keep their nasty old snakes in the nursing home!" This came from the second aide sitting at the desk.

Sara giggled at the narrative. "I don't think I'm in any physical shape for 'intimate time' even though," she winked and grinned, "The urge hits in the oddest moments!"

All four women laughed and snickered at the intended allusion.

"How did I get a private room?" Sara asked.

"Mrs. Richards is going back to assisted living—you should have had that room when you were admitted," One of the aides said and then mumbled, "money talks in this place."

"Watch your mouth, Bess," the nurse cautioned. "Mrs. Richards gets first choice since she's assisted living—you know that."

The aide leaned to Sara, saying, "Mrs. Richards doesn't know where she is. Her son is the one demanding his mother gets a private room and then he doesn't visit her!"

From that comment, the three employees talked for fifteen minutes about who had visitors and who didn't, who showed up when death was near, and who attended funerals.

Attempting successfully to sound innocently curious and forming an innocuous smile on her face, Sara asked, "Do many die in rehab? It seems like most of us are in pretty good shape."

"Not many," the nurse named Lacy said. "Every so often, we have one."

Sara lifted her water bottle tucked beside her in the wheelchair. She said, "According to my roommate, the water in rehab is tainted. She fills my bottle for me every morning."

The nurse chuckled, "Miss Gracie is a gossip." Waving fingers at the water dispenser near the desk, she said, "Same water."

"Well," said Bess, the smaller of the two aides, "those men did die in rehab." She dropped her voice to a whisper even though no one else was around, "The administrator was worried enough to have everything down there cleaned and cleaned again!"

"They found nothing," Lacy added. "Now you are the gossip!"

The second aide, who had remained quiet, spoke up, "My cousin is one of the techs in rehab and she says they are still worried. Can't figure out why—but I have my own idea."

The nurse turned around in her chair. "Okay, smarty-pants Carol. And what's your idea?"

"They exercise too much. Simple as that."

Sara had to bite her lip to keep a laugh from slipping out. The aide was a large woman—easily weighing over two-fifty—slow moving, slow talking. The slightest exertion had her breathing like a sump pump in a flooded basement. Yet, the woman could move Sara as if she weighed nothing.

Lacy and Bess laughed. Bess said, "Yeah, you'd know about exercise. That's what rehab is for—exercise!"

Carol chuckled along with them. "I'm still alive. Not going to get me on those machines! It's not normal—walking on a treadmill, lifting weights like that. If people would just move at their own pace—like I do—I'm just a slow mover—probably live long enough to get a 'happy birthday' from that old guy on television—Willard Scott!"

All the women were laughing. The aide slowly shifted and pushed out of the chair. "And now Sara needs a snack. She's the one who needs to gain weight." As she headed to the refrigerator, she asked, "What's your favorite? We have milkshakes, ice cream bars, dip and chips, and candy bars."

Sara started to say "fruit" but was interrupted by the nurse, "No fruit—we have orders to give you high calorie snacks."

"Dip and chips," Sara said, "and a candy bar. I've got to put on weight or I'll be a patient here forever."

At the same time, Lacy and Bess said, "Resident—not patient!" Lacy laughed as she said, "We don't have patients." Then, as she pulled a face, said, "But you certainly don't want to be a resident here for long, do you?"

Almost an hour passed as the four women talked about every subject that made nightly news. Sara could find no way to bring up the men who died in rehab sensing the three night shift employees did not know much about the deaths. When she returned to her room, helped back to bed by Carol, she noticed her phone had sent a reminder—today was the day Catherine Willows was coming to visit.

While she was in rehab and regaining something akin to a normal routine, Grissom had 'the list' as they had named the pages given to him by Rhonda and Dona. Rhonda's list had been a good beginning. Matched with Dona's information, Grissom had names and descriptive information. With Greg and Nick supplying backgrounds for eleven men, they had initially thought the process of connecting the men would be, if not easy, at least straightforward—if their deaths had been the work of one person, of a serial killer, would they be able to identify a shared trigger?

A quick study of the men found nothing in common except for their final days spent in Red Rocks Rehab. Two rode motorcycles and had been in rehab because of accidents but nothing else seemed to connect them—one a Harley rider, the other had a high speed sports bike. The men had such diverse work histories that it seemed almost impossible to find any connections between a middle-school teacher, an accountant, a construction worker, a food-service worker, a security guard, two retail workers—and an assortment of other occupations.

With two exceptions, the men had no criminal background and those were considered minor transgressions. Three of the men had never been fingerprinted. Four had been buried in Vegas; the others had been cremated or shipped to hometowns. There was nothing indicating family members had questioned any of the deaths.

Two of the men on Rhonda's list who were not included in Dona's notes had previous histories of heart problems.

Minimum financial histories were included in the background checks—and nothing popped out as unusual. No overly generous insurance policies, nothing out-of-the ordinary in banking accounts, no outstanding financial obligations. If anything, what the men had in common was the relative quiet and stable lives they had lived.

Jokingly, Nick had suggested they had all visited the same place—a coffee shop or restaurant or a brothel—and made a random connection, but then how and why did this connection lead to a rehab center? Nick and Greg had spent hours with Grissom making spreadsheets using the information they had gathered and nothing seemed to fall into a pattern.

"We need those medical records," Grissom said to himself as he sat at the dining room table. He was alone; Nick had dropped by for a while and the two men had covered every idea already discussed.

Nick had said, "Maybe we are not looking at a crime, Grissom. Maybe it's just what it is—death as a result of a blood clot—trauma. Not like a lot of those folks are making long-term plans."

Grissom grunted, saying "Yeah, but I don't think it's that simple."

"Are you making a guess?" Nick laughed.

A ghost of a grin swept across Grissom's face. "No guesses—just trying to make sense of it."

"We could look into the employees," Nick suggested.

But that idea had dissipated as they had talked about requirements for working in health care facilities—unless there was one employee who had forged a history.

Grissom glanced at his computer screen; almost sunrise and he planned to eat breakfast with Sara. He got in the shower, washed his hair, scrubbed his skin until it was pink, and stood under the shower far longer than usual. The longer he spent in the home Sara had made, the more he realized what a fool he had been. In more ways than one, he thought.

When he had met Sara, she had been the most beautiful person in the room. But it had not been beauty that held his attraction. It had been her lack of uncertainty as she had asked questions. She conveyed the impression that she was willing to provoke to get an answer. He had thought he could walk away from meeting Sara Sidle, but he had been wrong. He manufactured every reason possible to talk to her over two years—and had finally gotten her to come to Vegas.

Stepping out of the shower, he gave his body a vigorous drying, combed his hair, and carefully selected clothes. His thoughts remained on Sara as he dressed and walked through the house touching the things Sara had placed on shelves, filling a bird feeder Sara had hung on the patio, and finally, taking the two dogs into the small back yard—where she had worked long hours to make the yard into a beautiful and intimate space.

As the dogs chased each other and finished their outside business, Grissom checked his phone for messages. He was actually working on two projects—the list of names from rehab and, unknown to Sara, he had filed an appeal with her insurance company. He wanted to bring her home.

_A/N: Thank you for reading! And we love getting your comments and reviews! _


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Thank you for reading as we continue..._

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 14 **

Shortly after sunrise, Sara was roused out of sleep by two of her physicians who appeared to think it was a great time to be up, dressed, and entirely too excited about changing the cast on her arm.

"You're the first we've used this on! Ground breaking technology," one explained as the other carefully cut the fiberglass cast from her arm. He was also the one who scrubbed her arm until it was bright pink, tingling as skin was exposed to water for the first time in weeks.

Out of a box, they unwrapped a fishnet looking L-shaped form and held it up for her to see.

"Totally water-proof, a new polymer compound—some kind of plastic, I think," one explained as he gently placed it on her arm. "We'll shape it to your arm—the tighter weave goes where your fracture is—and seal it closed with this little device."

To Sara, the little device looked like a Dremel tool she had used in the lab but this one heated and, very carefully, the physician melted the fishnet polymer around her arm.

"We have to cut it off, but it's much lighter. You'll be able to move so much easier—probably forget it's here."

Watching the process, she asked, "Can I use a crutch?"

"Not yet—a few more days. The bones need to mend a bit more."

"Can I get one of these for my leg?"

Both doctors chuckled. One said, "We had to beg for this one, but if it works like it should, the next time you break a leg, you'll get one of these!"

They were right; the new cast—appearing as a white rigid mesh over her arm—was much lighter. The physicians studied scans of her leg and pelvis before deciding she would continue a slow process in rehab, promising another week and she would be ready for more intensive rehabilitation.

By the time she got back to her room, Grissom and Gracie were having a pleasant conversation over breakfast and Sara was hungry enough to eat two cups of yogurt, honey-drenched fruit, cinnamon and sugar toast, and cheese wedges brought on her tray.

A few hours later, Sara was sweating like a race horse as she maneuvered through a series of exercises that included pulling her body off an elevated mat. Hooking elbows over a bar, she had managed to do it four times with a slight push of her foot. The new 'cast' had been closely examined by the therapists—"impressive technology" one said. For Sara, it meant she could use her arm easier.

As one of the techs positioned a sliding board so she could move from the mat to a chair, Sara sensed a subtle change—everyone was looking at the entrance—and as she turned she heard the click of heels that could be produced by only one person.

And Catherine Willows was never one to be self-conscious about an entrance; Sara had to laugh out loud as Catherine walked across the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing; even the elderly woman struggling to balance on parallel bars stopped swaying and gaped at Catherine. The beautiful blonde entered in a swirl of floating pink.

Sara had to admit that her mouth popped open in a gawk for a few seconds. Catherine wore a pair of shoes with five inch heels; her knee-length pale pink skirt was pencil thin and a bright pink gossamer shawl floated around her slim body not hiding the architecture of a fashion model. Sara smiled at the obvious confidence Catherine could exhibit by walking across the room.

"Sara!" Catherine's voice rang across the room. In four or five long strides she was wrapping arms around Sara.

"I'm sweaty—I'm sweaty!" Sara protested as she returned the hug; her jersey shirt was damp with perspiration.

Catherine backed away; a look of astonishment on her face. "My God! What happened to you!"

Sara laughed, trying to remember the last time she'd seen Catherine—months ago, she was sure—as she tried to think back on all that had happened. She said, "That bad, huh?"

Grissom stepped around, taking a seat beside her on the mat, smiling as he watched the two women and placed his arm around Sara. He said, "She looks much better—she talking and moving around!"

"Did you really have to fall into a manhole to get this guy to return? And how long is this going to take—this rehab? Let me have a look at you!"

Sara knew Catherine was examining her and she knew she looked like—well, Sara thought, she really did not know how she looked because she had avoided mirrors for days.

Catherine gently touched Sara's hair and then moved on to the cast on her arm. "For the shape you're in, you look great. Thank God you will be okay. Gil says you are improving every day."

Sara nodded, saying, "It's taking a while—but at least I'm moving around."

Catherine stood, quickly surveyed the bright room, the dozen or so people in it who were suddenly involved in treatments again, and said, "What do we have to do to get you out of here so we can talk?"

The therapy tech who had been working with Sara quickly arrived with a wheelchair saying, "It takes a few minutes to transfer her." Grissom insisted on lifting her into the chair and in less time than usual, Sara was in a chair as Grissom pushed her toward the courtyard.

"Do you need anything?" He asked Sara and when she shook her head, he said, his voice low, "Outside is the only place we can get some privacy."

Catherine frowned as the morning heat hit her face; she slipped sunglasses over her eyes, saying, "And when do you get a private room."

"This afternoon," Sara answered. "I cannot tell you how I'm looking forward to it—no sounds other than what I make! I won't have to worry about waking up my roommate—who is a dear, but she wants to know everything—tells me everything she does!"

"The one who told you about the deaths in rehab?" Catherine asked. When Sara gave her a quizzical glance, the blonde added, "Gil caught me up—I'd say it's a real long-shot that nine or ten or eleven men under fifty should die in a place like this."

Grissom pushed Sara to a far corner of the courtyard where a stone bench had been placed, shaded by a trellis covered with vines.

Before she sat down, Catherine read the memoriam inscribed on the bench. "Gil," she said with a laugh, "I never ever want a bench at a nursing home to have my name on it!"

He winced at her words while Sara giggled. Catherine searched for a tissue in her leather bag and then wiped the bench before sitting on it.

The courtyard was the prettiest place in the facility with fake-flagstone walkways and blooming vines and barrels of flowers. Catherine inhaled the fragrance of flowers in an attempt to rid her sense of smell of bleach and pine cleaner.

"Thanks for coming, Catherine," Sara said. "I needed a breath of fresh air—the kind you bring! Everyone is so serious here!" Her mouth lifted in a smile. "It does get old—everyone in a uniform—all the patients with three exceptions—me, a young woman and a young guy in their twenties—everyone else is," she paused a brief moment, "elderly!"

Catherine had arrived to cheer up her friend, not evoke discussion of the depressing situation she had found. As she had walked through the facility, she had concluded that 'rehab center' was just another name for 'nursing home'.

"Okay," she said, "tell me the plan—for you, Sara. Girl, how long will you be in these—these casts? By the way, the one on your arm could be fashionable in certain places."

"Another week," Sara said, "and then it's more rehab at the new place by the hospital. I had to come here to get there." She laughed, sounding more melancholy than she meant to, adding, "It's not a bad place—the staff—they are very kind. Doing care that most of us take for granted—and doing it with a smile—I am grateful. So many of them really have a dedication to this work—and a sense of humor."

Catherine asked, "Tell me about the men—how on earth did you two uncover mystifying deaths?"

"We're not sure there is a mystery—or a crime," Grissom said. "Two people have given us some information along with a list of names—and one resident—Gracie. She was the first one who told Sara about the men dying—she thinks it's the water in rehab. The two others—and one is a therapist—think something caused the deaths other than the obvious—blood clots causing heart attacks—one had a seizure. They all appear to have died on their feet while in rehab." He held up one finger, adding, "One died while lifting weights—he had a history of heart disease."

"And no one questioned—no families?"

Sara and Grissom shook their heads. Grissom said, "We have a list of names, ran background checks, and nothing obvious pops up."

Catherine leaned back, crossed her legs, and leaned forward, pointing an index finger at Grissom, then Sara. She said, "You two know we have to poke our noses in a lot of places that is not our business to find out what is! I think we might flash a badge at the administrator and get some cooperation from him." She shrugged, "We can say Gracie got us interested."

Skepticism crossed Grissom's face. "I don't know if we should do that, Catherine. The two employees do not want their names known."

"Well, everyone knows Gracie thinks the water caused them to die," Sara said.

Catherine smirked. "I have a shiny FBI badge that says I can ask—rattle the box. I'll even give my boss a heads-up that I've heard of suspicious deaths at a nursing home where my friend is getting rehab—and it may involved federal funds. He'll love that part."

Grissom remained unconvinced yet he agreed he did not have enough evidence to learn more about the men. "A look at their medical records might clear things up."

"Let me talk to the administrator," Catherine said. "I'll use maximum diplomacy—he'll think he called me by the time I walk out of there."

Sara snickered; she had seen Catherine in action for years and had often wondered how her tactics played with the FBI's rigid reputation. The thought crossed her mind that maybe that's exactly why Catherine had been hired—she could adapt to any circumstance in seconds.

A few minutes later, after discussing Sara's routine for the rest of the day, Catherine asked Grissom, "You want to come along?"

"My people skills haven't improved," he said with a chuckle.

"You sit quietly and I'll talk—what about lunch? Can we eat here? Do I want to eat here?"

"The food is good," Sara said.

With that, Grissom left the women to order lunch.

As he disappeared into the facility, Catherine started with her questions. "Tell me all about it, Sara—when did Gil get back? And why did he stay away? Where has he been?"

Sara's mouth twisted into an enigmatic grin. She expected Catherine's questions and had anticipated how to answer. She said, "He's been in Texas, Catherine, studying bees—lots of traveling. We've had our ups and downs—but we—we have always loved each other."

Catherine waved a hand in the air. "We all know that, Sara! But what is wrong with Gil? He chases after you—goes to some jungle where you two get married and then you return to Vegas to work while he—he gads about the world looking at bugs! Marriage means—it should mean you live together—or at least see each other on a regular basis! Nick told me that you said he wasn't your husband any longer—when was that? Nearly two years ago! And then you take care of his mother when she's dying!" She shrugged her shoulders and continued, "Of course, when I was married to Eddie, we were in the same town—the same house—probably had too much time together! I might have liked him a little longer if I'd lived in another place!"

Sara winced at the memory. She said, "I should never have said that—that he wasn't my husband. I was pretty angry about some things." She smiled. "Gil's mother and I got to be good friends before she died—she depended on me—and—and I took care of her.

"As for Gil," quietly, Sara laughed. "You've known him for years, Catherine. Easy to love him, isn't it? But he—he…" she bit her lip in an effort to describe her husband.

Catherine finished her sentence, saying, "Gil sticks his head in the sand, Sara. The world could blow up and he'd never know it if there was a damn bug in front of his eyes! Once, I told him to get his eyes away from a microscope and see what was going on around him!" Her eyes narrowed as she made a face and laughed. "He's still doing it!"

"I love him," Sara said with a slight shrug, "always have—and he does love me. I know he does, Cath. It's hard for him to—to express it sometimes, but when he does," almost shyly, she smiled. "When he does—he's the most amazing man!"

Catherine giggled, "I remember you saying something along that line once—great sex." She reached for Sara's hand, asking, "What can I do? For you? I'm in town for a week." She laughed. "Unless you've discovered a serial killer right here in rehab—then I might be here longer. But I'm at your service—anything!"

_A/N: More to come! Thank you for reading-thank you for your comments and reviews!_


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for staying with our story!_

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 15 **

After lunch, Catherine and Grissom were welcomed by the administrator into an office that appeared to be one of a successful man in any business. Shelves held photos of family members and golf events along with books and several diplomas. Centered in the room was a large desk but the man motioned the two visitors to a round table with four chairs.

It took several minutes for introductions and questions about Sara's recovery before Mr. James asked if there was anything else he could do for them.

Catherine sat, ready to pounce, but Grissom, in a surprising tactful moment, introduced Catherine again—and included her current job as a special agent for the FBI.

He said, "Mr. James, Sara's roommate is a lady who has been here twice for rehab." He provided Gracie's name and a brief history. "Gracie is of the opinion that several young men have died during rehab—healthy men who died suddenly days before they were going home. Sara has asked others about the men and it seems you've had several unexpected deaths. When Catherine heard the story—well, her nature as well as her job makes her curious."

Not how Catherine has planned to initiate an unofficial investigation, she thought, but she adapted quickly. "Do you think it is suspicious that four or five young men have died while in your facility?"

The administrator ran a hand through his stylishly cut hair looking at Catherine with a resolute expression. "I'm not surprised that you are curious. And yes, it is unusual. Let me say we have an outstanding rehab facility—recommended by the best physicians in Las Vegas. In our rehab unit we might have two or three deaths a year—elderly residents usually—and yes, there have been unexplained deaths." He sighed.

Several minutes of silence passed; Catherine and Grissom waited; Mr. James seemed to be thinking as his hands moved nervously, fingers tapping on the table before moving to his chin where his index finger rested. Cautiously, his eyes moved from Catherine to Grissom and back to Catherine.

"Red Rocks is a good facility. It has a long reputation of providing care to those who need it, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried." He paused again before continuing, "I normally would never consider this—but since you are FBI—I don't want this to be official or get out to the media—I—I could get their records and let you see what you think. We've looked at everything—or we think we have. It's not what we expect to happen." The man got up and walked to a file cabinet behind them. "I'll give you what we did—the director of nurses, the therapists, and I." He returned to the table with a file an inch thick and placed it in the center of the table. "I'd appreciate it if you'd read it here—in my office. That way no one else has to know. I have a meeting to attend in fifteen minutes. You'll have a couple of hours and no one will disturb you in here."

Quickly, Catherine explained the previous working relationship with Grissom and the man agreed that two sets of eyes were better than one.

Mr. James said, "I just don't think there is anything here—I've made some inquires—confidential with other administrators—asking about mortality rates among short-term residents. Their numbers are nothing like what we've had going on." He pushed the file in Catherine's direction. "I'd appreciate being the first to know if you find anything." He rose, saying, "I'll be back in two hours or so."

In the middle of the night, Sara lay awake, amazed at how fast things moved once Catherine and Grissom had visited the administrator's office and surprised at his willingness to share information. While she had returned to rehab for another session of pulling herself around on a mat, been given a shower, and had moved to a new room, Catherine and Grissom had read each page of the administrator's investigation.

And found nothing to indicate criminal intent in eleven deaths of men under the age of fifty-five that had occurred in the past year. It was a puzzle—Catherine and Grissom agreed—but the administrator and therapists had been thorough. The director of nurses and pharmacist had checked medications and, as the men were taking few medications and others were taking the same ones, found nothing to suggest harm.

Grissom and Catherine had related all this to Sara as they settled her into the new room—and Catherine had left, returning in an hour with shopping bags filled with new pajamas and colorful panties, several shirts and stretchy pants, nail polish, shampoo and conditioner—brands that Sara had never heard of but knew they were expensive—and, in the bottom of one bag was food; candy, granola bars, cookies, crackers, dried fruits, and nuts.

Sara had insisted Grissom go to dinner with Catherine while she and Gracie had dinner together and by the time she was ready for bed, Grissom had returned prepared to spend the night for the first time since Sara had moved from the hospital. They had watched a mindless television show, side by side in bed, holding hands until Grissom had fallen asleep; Sara realized he was exhausted. He woke when she turned off the television and moved to the sofa, insisting she needed the entire bed.

She stretched arms across the bed—even the mattress was more comfortable, she thought, and it made no noise as she moved. Having a private room was luxurious—a bed large enough so she could stretch arms and legs from corner to corner, a real closet, a bathroom with a shower, and, best of all, a sofa. Through the darkness, she could see her husband; she could hear his soft regular breaths. Rolling onto her side, she watched him sleep, his sock covered feet propped on the end of the sofa that was too short.

He was sleeping six feet away from her. Sara folded her pillow under her head wishing Grissom would wake up, open one eye and look in her direction. She fought back tears remembering the last time they had slept together—months ago after his mother had died. He had arrived for the memorial service, staying two nights in his mother's apartment. Hours after the service, she had used her key to go inside and found him sitting at his mother's small table, surrounded by her papers.

Glancing up, seemingly unsurprised by her arrival, he said, "I don't know what to do," his hand waved across the table, "about—about this." He had not changed his clothes; his eyes were red rimmed, his face weary.

She approached the table, circled it to place her hand on his shoulder. "Leave it, Gil. I'll—I'll take care of it. Get some sleep."

He had stayed at the table for several minutes before getting up, taking her hand and walking into his mother's bedroom. Without a word, he had pulled her onto the bed, both fully dressed, wrapped them with an old quilt, and hugged her to his chest. She had felt a quiet sob in his chest seconds before he kissed the top of her head. Slowly, his body relaxed and soon he had drifted into sleep. Hours later, when she woke, he was gone. Fate—her own actions of the past—had determined this, she thought. The bed was cool, his bag no longer on the chest. She had rolled over and cried into the pillow.

Suddenly, Grissom shifted his position on the sofa; his eyes opened and when he met her eyes, he smiled.

"Hey," he whispered. "Need anything?"

"Sleep with me."

Shaking off the blanket, he stood, stretched, and walked to the bedside. "Which side?"

In the darkness, Sara could see his smile. She patted the bed, saying, "Doesn't matter—I'm happy you're here."

He retrieved his blanket before crawling into the bed. "I hope this is approved—I don't want to wake up in the middle of the night with a big nurse giving me your meds—or something worse." Chuckling, he spread the blanket over both of them.

Sara giggled, "Carol taped a 'Do not disturb' note on the door—she thinks we'll be up to hanky-panky tonight."

Grissom sighed, saying, "I don't think Carol has the same physician's orders that I got."

Another giggle, "And what were those orders?"

"No sex—at least two months." His arm went over her to rest his hand on her abdomen. "But right now, it feels good to do this." He snuggled and kissed her shoulder.

"Thank you, Gil." Turning her face to his, she pressed her lips into his hair. Bringing his face to hers, he smiled.

"I-I'm sorry, Sara," he whispered before he kissed her again. His hands gently combed through her hair as he deepened the kiss. His tongue flicked against her lips and she responded with a smile as she managed to get her casted arm over his shoulder. Her hand pressed against the back of his head.

Sara thought she had grown accustomed to the little jolts of intimacy that sparked every time he touched her. But she was unprepared for the breathtaking kiss. Her husband's mouth was hot and hungry on hers, as if he was demanding—needing—a response. And she did, pressing fingers into his hair, opening her mouth to him.

Groaning, he pulled away. "You smell so good," he whispered against her throat. His fingers touched her cheek and then he kissed her again, a light glancing kiss that was affectionate and filled with promise. He touched her nose with the tip of his finger, saying, "You need to sleep," he said. "You need rest."

She laughed. "Did the doctor really say two months?"

"Yes."

Laughing again, she said, "I'll need my leg pillow to sleep. And I have some questions for the doc." She laughed again, lighthearted, before giving him a mockingly stern look.

He reached for the foam wedge Sara used to support her broken leg. "How does this work?" Gently, he lifted her casted leg and fit the foam pillow between her legs. "How's that?"

"Perfect," she said.

He settled back beside her. "What do you think—is anything going on with the men? Is it something we've missed? Or is it—is it an unexpected effect of trauma?"

Sara replied, "If there is nothing to be found—we can't very well do tox screens—or dig up graves unless we know there is a crime. Or have reasonable evidence of a crime." She sighed, "I'm watching everyone in rehab—and there is nothing! Everyone works—we work!"

"In the information we read today, the therapists and aides in rehab had written what they remembered about each man—they—the men—were on the treadmill or lifting weights when they fell over. By the time the crash cart and nurses and the doctor arrived, the men were dead—nothing they did brought a sign of life."

"Maybe it's not in rehab—maybe it's something outside of rehab." She said as she placed her hand on Grissom's face. "I don't want to think about this right now." Then she moved her hand to adjust the foam wedge between her legs. "I have to adjust this thing again."

Softly, he laughed. "This is like having a big dog in bed with us. Can you sleep?"

Sara rolled over so her back was against her husband's chest. "I think I can sleep—easily. I could get used to this."

In the darkness, Grissom knew she smiled. His arm tightened around her waist as he said, "I've never forgotten." His arm wrapped tightly around her. "I can too."

_A/N: Thank you! We'd love to hear from all of you! More to come!_


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Another new chapter! Enjoy!_

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 16 **

For Sara, each day was unrelenting determination. She ate, went to rehab, ate again, returned to rehab, ate again, and took a shower. At least once, sometimes twice, a day, she had a visitor—Catherine, Nick, Greg, or Jim made a brief but welcomed visit, usually bringing a favorite food. By the time the evening news was on the television, she was exhausted. The privacy provided by her room was her reward for a day's work and when Grissom arrived and closed the door, they were ready for a peaceful interlude which meant one or both fell asleep while the television provided a measure of familiar intimacy.

While Sara had a fairly rigid schedule, Grissom had been surprised at how busy he was every day. He left the rehab facility after helping Sara dress, driving home to take the dogs for a walk, sometimes bringing one or both dogs back to visit with Sara and others in the facility. He puzzled over the information he had on the deaths of men in rehab. And he continued to work on an appeal to Sara's workers comp insurance company—if all went according to plan, she would be discharged from Red Rocks to go home and be an outpatient for the next step of rehab. But he had to meet certain criteria to make the plan workable.

He had talked to Benita several times. After he and Catherine had read the facility's report, and shared it with Nick and Greg, the general consensus was—nothing had happened—or if something had happened, there was no evidence. The administrator had already planned to insist on an autopsy on anyone who died in rehab. So the demise of at least nine men remained a series of perplexing and premature deaths.

It had taken a few days for Sara to know everyone in rehab—the patients, or residents, in rehab were the same ones every day. And as everyone was impaired in some way, the staff worked to make a congenial environment, calling encouragement across the room as an elderly woman finally made it to the end of parallel bars or Sara managed to move, unassisted, from the elevated mat to a chair or the young man completed his first two miles on a treadmill.

Some of the people were stoic, too tough for self-pity and ignoring the plight of anyone else. Others saw miracles in everything that happened—everyone was special—and who gave encouraging words to all. The therapists and techs were cheer leaders for everyone. By her second day, Sara was trying to be one of the encouragers as she battled through the pain of learning to move again.

As she wiped sweat from her face and shoulders, Gracie handed her a bottle of water. Looking up, Sara smiled at her former roommate who stood above her, a bright aluminum walker holding the elderly woman upright.

"Well, look at you!" Sara said, adding congratulations as she accepted the bottle of water.

Gracie smiled, wrinkles lifting her forehead and crinkling her eyes. "I'm going home tomorrow or the next! Got a walker and a cane—so I'll be ambulating on my own two feet from now on."

"That's great, Gracie. Will you be okay at home?"

Nodding rapidly, Gracie whispered, "I'll be fine—I'm worried about you—when will you be able to be up on your feet again? And just because I'm gone, doesn't mean you should drink the water in here!"

Her voice serious, Sara said, "I'm going to be very careful, Gracie. Hopefully, I'll get out of here early next week and then over to the institute where I'll learn to walk again. I'm going to be fine!"

Continuing in a whisper, Gracie said, "I'm still going to worry. All those men dying—don't drink from the water!" She pointed to the water dispenser. "And when the guy comes in, don't take any of those packets from him!"

This was the first Sara had heard about 'packets'; she asked, "What packets?"

"Those little things that flavor water—he's always handing out handfuls—like we can't drink plain water."

"Do you have any of these packets?"

Gracie shook her head, saying, "I'm not taking any of his poison!" She pointed to a coffee pot on a small table. "He leaves some in a box." Seeing Sara's expression, she said, "I'll get you a handful—do you think it's really poison? Could that be killing people?"

Puzzled, Sara answered, "Probably not—it's a common product—but I would like to have a few."

Slowly, Gracie made it across the room using her walker. Attached across the front was a fabric bag and when she reached the table, she rummaged around until she found a small white box and dumped the contents into her bag. She retraced her steps, grinning at Sara as she pushed the walker across the floor.

"We're going to solve this, aren't we? I knew you were smart—I just didn't think about these before now." The elderly woman stuck her hand into the bag and brought out a dozen single-serving packets of name brand flavor enhancers—lemon, lime, raspberry, a variety of teas.

Sara shook her head. "I don't think these have caused anyone to die, Gracie. It's like…" Sara tried to think of a product Gracie would know. "It's like Tang or Kool-Aid." She opened her hands to take packets that kept tumbling out of Gracie's bag. In the last handful, Sara noticed something different—three small packets smaller than her little finger—were different.

Spreading the packets beside her, Sara raked fingers through them separating the packets into little stacks of fruit flavors, teas, vitamin supplements, protein supplements, and the last group of small clear packages containing a white powder. She picked one up and rolled it between her fingers, reading a faded word hand written on it.

Gracie's eyes widened. "Is it drugs? Like cocaine or something like that?"

Sara made a soft laugh, saying, "I don't think it is—my Spanish is rusty but I don't think _cafeína _means a small restaurant. And I have a friend who can tell us what's in these packets." She gathered all the packets, keeping several, including the ones containing white powder. "Let's put these back—and keep these—can you take these to my room?" Sara smiled, "We'll eat lunch together and I'll call Gil."

"Oh, I'm going to get to help solve this mystery!" Gracie beamed with pleasure. "You think it's something, don't you?" She placed the ones going to Sara's room in the pocket of her pants.

Sara shook her head. "I'm not saying that—so let's keep it between us for now."

Gracie was delighted to be part of Sara's plan; she shuffled across the floor and dumped the packets back into the box. Waving at Sara, she said, "I'm going to tell them to deliver my lunch to your room!"

Sara waved and returned to her rehab exercises working another fifteen minutes before a tech rolled a wheelchair over to the mat.

"Lunch time," he announced as he handed the remote control device to her. "It's fried chicken day."

Sara had heard about the delicious fried chicken. "I'm a vegetarian, Mark."

"You're missing out on something good." The young man adjusted the slide board and waited while Sara moved to the chair. Smiling, he said, "Lots of improvement—you'll be leaving us soon."

"If only I could stand up—use crutches."

"You will."

The young man pushed her to the door and held it open for her. Once she was in the hallway, it was a straightforward roll to the end of the hallway and her room where she found Gracie waiting on the sofa.

"This is a nice room—plenty of space," Gracie said. "I know you are happy to have your husband stay with you."

For several minutes, the two women talked about the amenities of the room and then lunch arrived. After that, they talked about food—what was on their trays, the best places to eat, favorite foods—and Sara forgot to call her husband.

As she stirred her high-calorie milkshake, Sara said, "At first I really liked the taste of these but now, if I never saw another one, I'd be happy."

Laughter bubbled from Gracie as she sipped her milkshake. "I don't think I can taste anything anymore, so I just swallow for the nutritional value. All that exercise in rehab—we need calories. Have you put on any weight? That's a big deal around here."

Sara shook her head, "I haven't—get weighed again tonight and I'm thinking about hiding rocks in my pockets just so it will look like I'm gaining weight." She slurped the milkshake down. "I feel like I'm turning into a dumpling but it doesn't show up as weight gain—just going soft. Oh! The packets—are they in your pocket?"

The older woman dug a hand inside her pants pocket and pulled out the small packets, laying them on the bedside table. Gracie laughed again and reclined against the back of the sofa. "This is comfortable—do you mind if I stay for a few more minutes?"

Sara smiled; she knew Gracie wanted to be there when Grissom saw the packets. "Please do—would you like to watch your show? The remote is there," she pointed to the back of the sofa. "Closing the blinds cuts the glare on the screen, too."

While Gracie closed the room-darkening blinds, turned on the television and searched for her favorite noon time game show, Sara aligned the wheelchair beside the bed, lowered the armrest, attached the slide board, and managed to move herself to the bed. As she settled on the bed, relieved to have her butt out of the wheelchair and a little proud that she had finally been able to move without help, she knew it would be a long time before she had the ability to do simple activities without exhaustion.

The television had erupted with shouts from the game show audience as participants were selected—Sara realized this show had been on since her childhood—and she turned to ask Gracie how long the show had been running.

Gracie held the television remote in her hand, her chin rested on her chest; quietly, Sara laughed. The older woman had fallen asleep in the first minutes of the game show.

Sara struggled to place the pillow wedge under her cast and lay back to relax for a few minutes before returning to rehab. The television provided a noisy-mind-numbing background to the noon-time sounds outside the room. Her limbs felt heavy as she made herself as comfortable as possible and, unexpectedly, she drifted to sleep.

Something—a spasm or muscle contraction jerked Sara from sleep, she thought—that sudden awakening that came from a cramp; she lay there for a minute, confused, because her leg was not cramping. Her mind foggy with sleep, the sound of the television added to her confusion before she remembered Gracie was in her room and they had eaten lunch together.

Suddenly, around the edges of the television noise, she heard something else and a fleeting sense of déjà vu told her this same noise was what had woke her up. It was the sound of a grunt or a throat clearing; quickly she looked in the direction of the sofa thinking Gracie had made the sound in her sleep. But it appeared Gracie had not moved since dropping off.

She heard a sigh, a quiet rustle of fabric against fabric, and realized it came from the other side of her bed. A second passed as she thought the sounds were made by an aide, attempting to be quiet, coming in to pick up the lunch trays, but as she attempted to turn—her leg held by the pillow wedge slowed her progress—the sigh turned into a wheezing grunt.

A hand touched her sock-covered foot.

"Gil?" she whispered. "Gracie came for lunch—I forgot to call you."

Another grunt.

Suddenly, she realized—this was not a familiar sound. The hand on her foot did not belong to her husband. She twisted too quickly causing a flash of pain to light up her brain and close her eyes. Reaching for her beeper or her phone, she realized both had been left on the table where she had eaten lunch. Stretching as much as she could, she tried to find the emergency cord above her bed—with no luck.

She turned again, attempting to face the intruder, only to find her feet tangled in a blanket, her cast heavy, preventing an easy roll. There was a man at the end of the bed. Her eyes focused—a face behind a surgical mask, a man wearing a gray plaid shirt unbuttoned to reveal a white sagging chest. His hand was hidden by an overhanging belly but she knew what he was doing.

His hand started crawling up her leg as he took a shambling step forward.

Sara screamed, flailing at the man with both arms.

In a miasma of confusion, everything happened at once.

An aluminum cane sailed through the air and found its mark against the man's shoulder. He staggered, falling across Sara's bed.

The door opened; Grissom faced a confusing scene of two women shrieking and yelling, bed linens whirling around the bed. The two dogs on leashes immediately started barking; Sally Sue straining at her restraint trying to reach the bed.

Just then, the clash and clatter of dishes, flatware and trays added to the chaotic commotion. Gracie had managed to stand, knocking over dishes as she gained her footing, yelling at the top of her lungs as she did so. She had managed to grab the cane and was hitting the man's backside.

Behind Grissom, nurses and aides suddenly rushed into the room nearly knocking him over in their rush to enter.

There was so much shouting as everyone seemed to surge forward at the same time—trying to wrap his mind around what was happening, Grissom only saw Sara—experiencing a moment of horrified confusion as a scene of slapstick comedy in a poorly written play seemed to unfold before his eyes.

A man, his plaid boxers below his knees, khaki pants at his ankles, his white sagging butt up in the air as legs flailed and thrashed, was being held in a kind of locked-arm choke hold by Sara, using her fractured arm to hold the guy's head between her body and her elbow while she tried to capture his arms. The look on her face was one of gritty determination; her strength of will channeled into a physical power that had rendered the old man useless.

Grissom and one of the nurses pulled the two apart as chaos continued for several more minutes; everyone talked at once. Two aides hustled the old man away.

"I knew he was harmless," Sara kept saying, "but he kept coming—I—I couldn't get away from him!"

The dogs managed to land on the bed. The nurse was running her hands over Sara, asking questions that were not answered.

Grissom managed to hug her; his concern growing as Sara repeated the same sentence again.

Gracie shook off the aide who had arrived and was trying to persuade her to leave the room. "Someone needs to clean up this mess! That old man should be locked up—or at least a ball and chain put on him! He tried the same thing last week in another room!" Gracie's usually cheery manner had turned into the shout of a tough-talking tyrant.

Grissom had managed to get on the bed with Sara, caressing her face, studying her eyes; she was hugging her dog who had become instantly obedient once she had reached Sara. Bexar was tucked between Grissom and Sara, apparently satisfied with the situation that had put him on the bed.

"Are you okay?" He whispered into Sara's ear as he held her close.

Her head tilted up; she asked, "Please, can everyone leave—just for a little while?"

The woman cleaning up the broken and scattered dinnerware raised her eyes, saying, "Thirty seconds and I'm out."

The nurse straightening the covers said, "Are you sure? Are you alright I'll need to ask you some questions later." To no one in particular, she said, "I have to inform the administrator—the physicians—write up a report." She smoothed the blanket over the end of the bed and looked with pleading eyes at Sara.

Sara nodded.

Gracie, still standing with her walker, nodded her head. "You need some peace and quiet." She headed to the door, clearly directing her words to the nurse. "Nothing like an old fool—everybody will claim he has dementia, but he doesn't. He's a nasty old man! Doesn't need to be here—he should still be in jail!" She shuffled toward the door, turning back to Sara. "We'll visit later, dear. I won't go home until we get to talk again." She lifted one hand in a wave—pointing to the bedside table.

The door finally closed. Somehow, during the mêlée, the television had been turned off.

Grissom leaned against the bed's headboard and pulled Sara into his arms. The dogs shifted and settled again, the fracas forgotten for the moment. With gentle fingers, Grissom pushed several locks of hair behind Sara's ear. He kissed the top of her head.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He asked.

"I'm fine, really—just scared ten years off my life!" Smiling, she said, "I don't want to get between Gracie and her cane—did you see her?"

Grissom grimaced, "Who was that guy?"

"I don't know." Sara sighed and then softly laughed. "Why was he wearing a surgical mask? Did he think he was a doctor?"

Hugging her tightly, Grissom said, "I don't think so—I think Gracie is right about him—he's a—a—criminal if he's not a rapist! What did she say about him being in jail?"

"I didn't hear that."

"Well, since the administrator and I are on friendly terms, I'm going to ask. If this guy has been entering rooms uninvited, climbing into bed with women—unlike you and Gracie who can fight him off—he has no place in a care facility."

Sara kissed his cheek; he turned enough to kiss her mouth and asked, "Sure you're okay?"

"Yeah—and I think I know what killed those guys in rehab—I meant to call you about it!" She pulled away, looked at the bedside table and uttered, "Oh, shit—they're gone!"

_A/N: Thank you for reading, a special thanks to those of you who review! We enjoy reading your comments! _


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who continues to read...enjoy!_

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 17**

"Little packets—those things used to flavor water."

Grissom appeared confused but he let her go and scooted out of bed.

"About this big," Sara said as she used her fingers to show him the size. "Like sugar packets—only smaller—and round. Gracie found them in rehab—I think I know what caused those men to die, but I need the packets!"

Quickly, on hands and knees, he found what she wanted. "These?" He asked, presenting several in his hand.

"Yes—keep looking—should be a few more. Clear packets that look like sugar."

His head disappeared under the bed, then his shoulders, his butt in the air. Sara reached out and gave him a gentle pat. Softly, she giggled, "I love that butt!"

Slowly, he backed out from under the bed, holding two clear packets between his fingers. "What on earth have you found?"

"The package says its caffeine—a lot of caffeine, I think. Several months ago—in Ohio or Indiana—a young man died of a caffeine overdose. Reported at the time, and we talked about it at work, probably happens more than we know—and usually reported as a cardiac arrest or seizure." Her eyebrows lifted in an expression of pleased triumph. "Caffeine powder isn't regulated—and isn't checked for by most coroners! So when Hodges tests those packets, I think we're going to know how they died!" Screwing up her face as she grinned, she added, "At least we will have a probable cause."

Grissom turned the packages over in his hand. "It appears to be a home-made packet of some kind, not like the others—it's—I think it's a drinking straw!" He rolled one between his fingers. "White powder—what made you think caffeine? It might be cocaine."

Sara laughed and shook her head. "Look close—it's written on one of them—in Spanish. And cocaine in a nursing home—why? We get lots better stuff than that—all legal—for pain, to sleep, to wake up, for depression—there's a pill for that." She took the packet from his fingers. "I'm calling Hodges—I'll bet this is pure caffeine and it doesn't take much to cause death."

Chuckling as he sat on the bed, he said, "No one is going to believe you and Gracie solved these deaths—or probably have. How'd you find the packets?"

"Gracie. She said the water man hands them out—and she found these in a box with the others. We took all the caffeine ones."

"What if I take them in? Maybe Hodges will be in a forgiving mood."

"Forgiving mood? For what?" Sara asked as she struggled to move on the bed.

Grissom watched a few seconds and then said, "Let me help you." He slipped arms underneath and around her and easily shifted her into a more comfortable position as he talked. "Oh, he kept emailing me and I ignored him, deleted his messages—never even opened them—except for the lab, I—I never had much to say to Hodges."

Sara grimaced, "Well, that's probably for the best—that you didn't read his emails. He has his own opinion of everything that happens—not always right—but he thinks so." Waving the little packet in the air, she giggled. "I do believe he'd forgive all if you asked him to solve a little mystery."

Grissom took the packet and several others, wrapping them in a tissue before sticking them in his pocket. "You need to rest—and that nurse is going to be back. I'd think an attack—dementia or not—would be written up and reported."

Thumping her pillow with a fist, Sara slumped back on the bed. "I am so tired of this place—I'd give anything to—to go home!"

Suddenly, Grissom's face brightened with a grin; he stood, rocking back on his heels. "That's my news! In all the excitement, I'd forgotten—you are going home! Insurance has approved everything—and Benita is going to be your nurse of record! When you are discharged from here—which I think I'm going to speed up when I talk to the administrator—you get to go home. From there, you'll be an outpatient at the institute."

Sara's face had gone through a series of expressions from surprised disbelief to dumfounded amazement before she said, "How? How'd you manage this?"

Grissom sat down on the bed beside her. "Perseverance, dogged determination—I kept calling, kept asking questions. When one said 'no' I'd ask to speak to someone else." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and continued, "It really isn't that unusual—for people to be out-patients—and once I—we—agreed to all the requirements, it became possible."

He could feel Sara's relief as she relaxed against him. "Home," she whispered, "I can really go home?"

"Yes, yes, but you have to go in for rehab six days every week—a few more days here—maybe less—and you will be sleeping in your own bed."

"I'm going home." Suddenly, she turned to look at him. "Gil," tears glistened her eyes. "Who—who…" fingers covered her mouth as she attempted to gain control of emotions. "Gil, I don't want you to have to—to be my nurse! To—to have to wait on me—there's so much I can't do! I—I don't want you to have to do everything. It's a lot of work to get a shower—and cooking, driving back and forth…I can't even stand up yet."

There was a moment of silence; Sara could see the muscles in Grissom's jaw twitch several times.

Quietly, he spoke, "Sara! Honey, I'll take care of you—I came back because you needed me—I need you to need me." His hand reached for hers as he turned so he faced her, saying, "At one time, we grew to need each other." He sighed, "And then we grew apart. It's—it's not something I'm proud of, Sara. Let me—let me do this—for me—as—as a way of apology."

For a fleeting minute, he caught a glimpse of uncertainty as she searched his face, seemingly testing him before compliance and agreement soften the sparkling gold flames in her eyes. He saw the moment pass as she relaxed allowing her head to fall against the pillow.

His sense of relief was almost overwhelming as she murmured a soft "okay".

Managing a smile as his mind tried to make order out of the chaos of recent events, he asked again, "Are you sure you are okay?" The intrusion and attack seemed to be pushed out of her thoughts with relative ease.

She nodded just as a light rapping on the door occurred; instead of the usual, "Come in" he got up and opened the door.

The nursing supervisor asked, "Is it okay to come in? I've really got to make a report."

Sara nodded again, "Come in." She looked at Grissom saying, "Hodges—and the administrator."

Grissom nodded, touched his pants pocket, and started out the door halting his footsteps to return to Sara's bed. "I'll be back," he said as he lifted her chin and softly kissed her lips. "Rest."

As he headed in the direction of the administrator's office, Grissom had time to reflect on the panic that had hit him immediately upon seeing the frenzy in Sara's room. In an instant, he had realized, again, how much he loved her—and how much he had failed as her husband. When Sara had responded, not with horror and misery, but with an amusement that interrupted a predictable routine, he had, again, realized a responsibility—his responsibility to the woman who was his wife; he had followed ambitions that would ultimately mean little to anyone as he had traveled around the world. Sara—his lonely wife and the only woman he had ever passionately loved—had remained in their house, taking care of their mothers and their dog without complaint as he had abandoned and neglected the most important person in his life.

What a fool he had been, he thought as he arrived at the office of the administrator and, as if expected, was shown in, door closing behind him.

Immediately, several minutes of apology preceded Grissom walking across the room and taking a seat in a chair across the desk from the administrator who kept expressing regret for "this incident".

Hearing enough—without hearing a real explanation—Grissom interrupted, "Mr. James, how often does this happen? How does a man living here manage to enter rooms—and I understand there can be no locks on the doors—when he's an obvious danger to others?"

The man stammered another apology.

Grissom remained calm and quiet. And remained in the chair.

Mr. James spread his hands across his desk, saying, "We've already called his responsible party—the man will be leaving as soon as possible."

"To another place where he will keep doing the same thing to unsuspecting women?"

The administrator dropped his head. "I don't know—I don't think so. He has a history—a criminal past."

Grissom could not believe what he was hearing. "He's a criminal? Please don't tell me this guy is a sexual predator—a rapist!"

The man's eyes remained cast downward as he pushed a single piece of paper across the desk. "This is in strict confidence—I take responsibility because it was my decision to admit him—but first, I want you to know that I was told he had dementia and his—his past was behind him—forgotten with dementia. But it's not—your wife was the third woman he has attacked." He kept fingers on the paper, pausing a few seconds before continuing, "I knew him when I was a kid—could not believe—it was difficult to believe he had killed those young women over several decades…" The administrator wiped his face and looked at Grissom. "He was my dentist—a kind, considerate old guy—I knew his daughter!"

Grissom's jaw slacked in surprised astonishment. "Don't tell me this is David Lowry?"

The administrator nodded, saying, "It is."

Leaning back in the chair, Grissom found he was gripping the armrests of the chair. "David Lowry—David Lowry! He was sent to prison for life!"

"It's a well hidden fact of the prison system—and places like this—that elderly, senile, sick prisoners are discharged to long-term care facilities. Most of them are not ambulatory, most have a few months to live, and are harmless—don't even remember why they are in prison. So when his name crossed my desk—and it is my mistake—I decided to approve his admission."

Grissom did not pick up the paper; speechless, he stared at the administrator, incredulous disbelief playing across his face by what he had just been told.

Mr. James said, "I sincerely regret this. The most I can do is offer my services—whatever I can do—to rectify the situation. Anything?"

At this offer, Grissom immediately knew what he would ask of the administrator. "Get the man out of this place—call the prison—whatever you do—get him away from women!" He leaned forward, saying, "And I want my wife discharged—tomorrow. Work it out with her physicians and therapists—but she's going home."

_A/N: Who remembers David Lowry? And Sara's going home! More to come...thank you for reading and we appreciate those who send a comment or review! _


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Another new chapter! Thank you for reading!_

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 18**

There was no rest for Sara.

Events began to move forward with a swiftness that surprised everyone involved. Immediately after she signed a handwritten report of the incident, another nurse arrived with transfer orders. The orthopedic physicians insisted Sara return to the hospital for a body scan and x-rays to check for possible injuries.

By the time Grissom returned from the administrator's office, he barely had time to tell her of the conversation and promise he would pack her few belongings before meeting her at the hospital. Gracie was in the hallway watching as Sara was wheeled to the transport van and followed Grissom back into the room.

"Is she really leaving?" Gracie asked as she watched Grissom empty a bedside drawer. "Did you tell the administrator—about the stuff we found?"

Grissom motioned for the elderly woman to sit and briefly related most of what had been discussed in the administrator's office—he did not tell Gracie the history of David Lowry, saying the man would be gone in a few hours. He folded clothes and stuffed them into a bag, saying, "If things work out—if there is no injury—Sara will go home today, Gracie. It may take a few days to get rehab set up, but I'll take care of her."

"She needs to eat," Gracie said. "Can you cook? She's thin as a rail. Do you have someone who can cook for her?"

"I can cook," he answered as he opened drawers that were empty; thank goodness there wasn't much here, he thought.

"Write down your address—so I'll have it."

Grissom turned to the woman who used a walker and had wielded a cane in Sara's defense. He found a scrap of paper and wrote the address and phone numbers for her. "Do you drive, Gracie? Or did you drive?"

"I did—still have my car—but not sure when I'll start driving again." She shrugged, adding, "I think I can drive tomorrow—as soon as I get free of this place!"

Quietly chuckling, Grissom said, "Call me and I'll come and get you. Sara enjoys your company." He sat on the edge of the bed, adding, "I'm taking the packets you found to the crime lab. It will be several days before they get results, but I think you've found the cause of these deaths." His eyes narrowed; he asked, "What did you do before retirement?"

Gracie smiled, "I was a librarian—for a long time I worked in a law office library and then I worked in the public library. I liked that much better."

Rising from the bed, he extended his hand. "Thank you, Gracie—for keeping my wife entertained—and for protecting her in a situation that could have had a very different ending."

Taking his hand, Gracie stood, smiling and said, "You're trying to cheer me up."

"Yep," he said jauntily and with a wink. "Now let me walk you back to your room and do whatever has to be done for an official discharge from this place."

Hours later, Sara was wheeled into a hospital transport van for the quick ride to her house. She had been x-rayed, scanned, examined, and asked a hundred questions by the physicians and the nurses. She had asked a few pointed and personal questions about her condition and progress—several questions actually got a smile from the physician who kept promising that she was recovering ahead of schedule and in six months all of this would be a faint memory.

As the van pulled carefully between several cars in the driveway, Sara knew instantly how so many people had heard she was going home; from the number of cars in the street and driveway, a crowd of people had descended to her house. Most of them seemed to have arrived with bunches of flowers and pots of plants, bags of groceries and plastic bowls of food. It was as if the entire lab had heard of her unexpected homecoming—and half of them had decided to visit at the same time.

In addition, two technicians from a health equipment service were there to outfit her bed and bath with "assistive" equipment that included a lightweight folding wheelchair.

As she was wheeled from the transport van and through the house, everyone was talking at once, welcoming her home, hugging her as a long-lost sailor. Both dogs were barking. Jim Brass and Lou Vartann were standing in the foyer, holding doors open as equipment was hauled inside. D.B's wife, Greg and Morgan were working in the kitchen doing something with food. Nick was helping the guy with the over bed trapeze set-up. Grissom, following the van, was the last one to come in and was greeting everyone with hugs and hand-shakes like a politician in a tight race.

Sara was happy to see everyone—a little overwhelmed by all the commotion, especially when she needed the bathroom in the worse way; exhaustion shrouded her body and all the noise caused her head to ache. The two people from the transport van made a path and finally transferred her to the bed and then she heard Catherine's voice coming from the bathroom. Something about Catherine being in her bathroom—with the door open—caused an unexpected emotional response in Sara.

Everyone was being so cheery as they followed her into the bedroom with good-humored and well-meaning comments, yet as Sara tried to settle on the bed, breathless and tired, her emotions bubbled to the surface; tears formed and spilled from her eyes. Barbara Russell was the first to notice and took charge.

"Everyone out! Out! Sara's been through a lot and doesn't need a gaggle of geese quacking over her after all this!"

The dogs jumped onto the bed, squirming and snuggling next to Sara.

Immediately, everyone left, again with good-spirited words—except for Grissom and Catherine, who appeared in the doorway of the bathroom wearing slim-cut jeans and a tight fitting, sleeveless tank top. Sara's confusion was somewhat cleared when Catherine said, "I'm not leaving until this guy is finished!"

She walked over to Sara's bedside with a box of tissues. Nodding in the direction of the kitchen, she said to Grissom, "Go take care of your guests. I'll take care of Sara." Handing tissues to Sara, she continued, "You're getting a bidet installed in the bathroom, dear. The man works for Sam's casinos so I stole him for the day. We thought we'd have more notice of your homecoming so we had to get busy!"

Sara wiped her eyes, but tears seemed unstoppable. "Sorry," she said as she blew her nose, "I—I think I'm tired—so much has happened today." She sniffed; a puzzling frown furrowed her forehead. "A bidet? How?"

Taking extra pillows and placing them under Sara's head, Catherine explained, "It's built into the seat—you can work it with one finger—and once you get use to one, you'll decide it's the best thing since—since learning about tampons! We had them installed in half the rooms in the hotel and guests love them." With a giggle, she said, "It will clean you in places you didn't know needed cleaning!" She stood back and observed Sara for a long minute. "Girl, you have a way to go, don't you? Gil told me about Dr. Dave—good grief—how does someone like that get out of jail?

"And he thinks you figured out what caused the men to die in rehab! Caffeine! Who would have thought of that one?" Hands on hips, she looked around the bedroom; she frowned. "Is Gil up to this?"

Just as hearing Catherine's voice earlier, the question caused more tears to gather in Sara's eyes. "I don't know," she whispered. Using her hand, she wiped her eyes. Again, whispering, she said, "I—I wanted to come home so bad—to sleep in my bed—I haven't told anyone, but I haven't been sleeping well—and I don't want to take a pill to sleep—and then that guy came into the room. It was horrible, Catherine! I—I was helpless to get him off me! And poor Gracie—she was trying as hard as she could, but he just—it felt like he was all over me."

Catherine sat down on the edge of the bed. "Sara—Grissom said you were fine." Worriedly, she took Sara's hand, asking, "Do you need to—to get checked out? I mean—was there a—a sexual assault?"

A weak smile crossed Sara's face. "No—no, he fell on the bed—on top of me, but he didn't do anything but wail once Gracie started beating him with her cane." She sighed, wiping her eyes again. "Sorry—I'm happy to be home—just a bit overwhelmed, maybe."

Catherine remained on the bed for several minutes, finally asking, "How would you like a shower? One of those guys with all the equipment put a bench in your shower and that plumber should be finished with the bidet pretty soon." She patted Sara's hand. "You still drink tea? What about a cup of tea and a sandwich?"

Sara nodded.

"And then," Catherine added, "we'll see what it takes to get a shower." Seriously, she asked, "Did you not get a shower—after—after…?"

Shaking her head, Sara said, "It all happened so fast—I barely had time to say goodbye to Gracie before I was out the door." She wiped her face. "Tea and a sandwich would be great—thanks. And a shower would be even better. I hate to be a wet blanket for a party but I don't think I can enjoy much company."

Again, Catherine patted her hand. "Don't worry about a party. Everyone wanted to help get you back home. Morgan and Greg brought food and got Lou and Jim to help. Barbara pitched in. Nick brought the dogs home. I came with a plumber—we didn't plan on a party."

A quiet clearing of a throat caused both women to look at the bathroom door. "This is all ready—if you'd like to give it a try." The big plumber, wearing a spotless white shirt, filled the doorway.

Sara wondered how a man could stay so clean while working in the bathroom before she realized he carried a blue coverall over one arm.

"I really could use the bathroom," she said. "But it takes a while to get there."

Catherine waved the man toward the bedroom door. "Wait for me out front while we check things out. And ask someone in the kitchen to fix Sara a sandwich and tea, please."

"I'll need the wheelchair, Catherine."

Instead of getting the wheelchair, Catherine called for help, getting Grissom, Nick, Greg, and Brass at once.

"I can get myself into the chair, guys, and then I can handle the bathroom by myself," Sara said as the men gathered around her bed. "I need to do this with minimum help."

Greg rolled the wheelchair into the room; Nick brought the slide board and fitted it onto the chair and bed. The three men stayed in the bedroom, standing around the bed.

"Okay—everyone out but Gil, please," she asked. At their looks of concern, she added, "If you hear a crash, come running."

She had managed this routine move dozens of times and kept a smile on her face as she slid from bed to chair. Grissom pushed her into the bathroom as they tried to figure out a way to make it easier. Both examined the square box attached to the wall and the new seat before she shifted from wheelchair to toilet and both laughed as she pressed an icon for adjusting temperature.

"Catherine says we will love using this thing," Sara said as she finished. She pressed another symbol for water and giggled as a gentle spray covered her bottom. A few seconds later, a breeze of warm air dried her skin. She looked at Grissom, all traces of tears gone, giggled, and said, "Well, I might get a thrill out of this but nothing like what I remember getting from you."

Neither could hold back laughter.

Finally, Grissom said, "Oh, Sara, I'm so sorry this happened to you—I'm sorry I wasn't here for you. But because it did, I'm home—and I've realized how much I've missed by staying away." He placed his hand under her chin and tenderly covered her mouth with his. After kissing her in the gentlest way imaginable, he added, "I promise you will not have to use a bidet for a pleasure—promise."

He kissed her again, much longer than before, releasing her and saying, "We still have a house filled with people. I guess we should tell the plumber this works and the rest of them can—I don't know—what should we tell them?"

Sara formed a quizzical smile; her eyebrows lifted as she said, "To go home and come back another day?"

"You need to eat."

Nodding, Sara pulled her pants up with Grissom's assistance and then managed to complete the maneuver back to the wheelchair. "A few more days and I'll be able to do all of this will less help," she said.

Grissom grinned. "It doesn't matter if its a few days or a few weeks—we'll get there." He inspected the newly installed bidet seat again. "Only Catherine would think of this," he chuckled.

But Catherine was not the only friend who recognized Sara had special needs. Greg had prepared several foods he knew Sara loved and instead of a sandwich and tea, he had a black bean burger ready for her, topped with avocado, tomato, and cheese, along with a fruit and nut salad from her favorite vegetarian restaurant.

"More in the refrigerator," he said. "You've got enough food for two days and someone will be over tomorrow with more food."

"And a cheesecake," Morgan added, "Vegetarian—soy milk and chocolate."

Already chewing on the burger, Sara declared, between bites, it was the most delicious food she had eaten in days.

An hour later, Sara and Grissom were finally alone, a dog curled in each lap.

"You should be in bed."

Sara nodded, saying, "I'm so tired I don't think I can sleep. And I need a shower, Gil. I—I can still smell that old creep on me." She grimaced, "I know it's a lot to ask…" Her voice trailed off.

Grissom got up, dog in his arms, kissed her forehead, and said, "I know exactly what to do—give me a few minutes and I'll be back."

In a few minutes, Sara heard him moving around in the bedroom; a few minutes later, she heard the clothes dryer running. In ten minutes, Grissom was back.

He pushed her into the bedroom. "I have had a verbal lesson in how to give a bed bath."

The bed covers were folded back; several thick towels were spread on the bed. A lightly-scented steaming bowl was beside the bed.

Sara grinned. "Are you sure about this?"

For an answer, Grissom lifted her from the chair and placed her on the towels. In several swift motions, he had her pants removed, her top off, and placed a warm towel over her body. From a stack of washcloths, he took one, wet it in the bowl, and begin washing her body starting with her shoulders.

Seeing her smile, he said, "I have a special cleaner for your face—according to Dona, no woman likes soap and water on her face."

As he gently rolled her to wash her back, Sara said, "Now I know your teacher."

"Yes, she is. I called her about the caffeine—Rhonda, too—so both got a heads up on what you found." He lifted her leg and washed her thigh. He grinned, leaned over and kissed her knee. "I learned what to wash first and last."

Always keeping a warm towel wrapped around her, he slowly cleaned her leg, her foot, toes on both feet before leaving for another bowl of warm water. With this, he carefully washed the apex of her thighs, and in an extreme act of intimacy, cleaned her feminine folds as no one had done since she was an infant.

A spontaneous groan came from Sara.

Grissom removed his hand. "This is not to be sexual, Sara." His voice was edged with gentleness.

Softly, Sara laughed. "I know—got the three minute lecture today when I asked—no sex for two months." She laughed again. "I need a calendar."

She heard his laughter as he left the bed and brought her a clean shirt and pants for sleeping. After she was dressed and tucked between covers, he said, "I'll be back shortly—sleep—you have to be exhausted." Leaning over, he kissed her lightly on the lips.

Sara frowned when he pulled away after a few seconds. She said, "Kiss me again—like you mean it." Her hand went to his face.

Leaning forward again, he captured her mouth, kissing her with a force he had been saving for days. Sara wrapped her arm around his neck and kissed him back.

_A/N: We appreciate you reading-and thank you for your comments and reviews!_


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Ratings change! So things are 'warming up'-Enjoy!_

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 19**

Three days at home before rehab started again—Sara was in a quiet heaven. No constant background music, no rattle of wheels, no jangle of keys, no squeak of shoes, or clink of equipment, just peaceful silence save for the click of little toenails from two small dogs that enjoyed keeping her company. Even her husband was surprisingly silent as he padded around the house in sock covered feet.

Another surprise was how easily she found sleep—so soundly that when she woke to find the bed empty, she was taken by surprise. A thread of light around an edge of the window told her she had slept through the night. The house was so quiet, she was almost certain she was alone.

"Gil?" Her voice was husky, muffled from sleep. No answer; and no response from the dogs. She had slept so long she had difficulty moving in bed. At the same time, she did not mind the effort and, with no one to hear her, made an audible groan as she rolled to her side. An aching pain wrapped around her hips as she moved—her groan became significantly louder when she realized her wheelchair, sliding board on the seat, was five feet from the bed, out of her reach, which ruled out a trip to the bathroom.

Looking around for her phone, she saw it—on top of Grissom's chest—across the room. Rolling to her back, she exhaled a very long breath, looked at the ceiling and decided she'd laugh rather than cry at her predicament. After all, she thought, he could not be gone long.

The morning's dilemma was their first 'pickle' situation and after Grissom returned, embarrassed and apologetic, they both decided there would be more, but determined they would serve the pickles on a small plate instead of in heaps on a platter.

To make up for his unthinking actions, Grissom carefully picked her up, moved her to the wheelchair, and pushed her into the bathroom.

The first day was a time of adjustment for both. From the wheelchair, Sara could not reach her toothbrush, the upper shelves of the refrigerator, the coffee pot, or the faucet at the kitchen sink. After these discoveries, they made adjustments, laughing as things were moved around. Grissom fixed her breakfast and brought it to the table.

"We'll work things out," Grissom assured her.

Sara ate what he placed before her and told him it was better than anything she had eaten in days. And in the stillness of the house they had rarely shared, they found a peaceful state in simple things.

Grissom brought toast to the table; she spread butter on each slice. He unfolded the daily newspaper and, without a word, pulled the crossword page out and handed it to her. He refilled her coffee cup; silently, she passed the bowl of sugar to him as she filled in the puzzle. In these small ways, without fanfare or other dramatic displays, they took the beginning steps at rebuilding a life together.

"I think I can sleep," Sara said after she had been up for less than an hour. With a quiet laugh, she added, "I never thought about how quiet it is here."

Grissom pushed her into the bedroom but let her move into the bed. Once settled, he placed water, her phone, and a stack of magazines on the bedside table.

"I'm going to call Hodges—see if he's tested your packets and do a few other things—on the phone, so I'll be near if you need me," he said.

As much as she could, Sara wiggled under bedcovers, yawning as she did. "Can't believe I'm ready to sleep again—go—I'll be fine." She giggled as he adjusted the wedge under her fractured leg. "Come back soon—I might need something."

The tone of the giggle caused him to glance in her direction just as she covered her face with the sheet. He caught a glimpse of a crooked smile. The dogs were making swirls in the covers getting ready to nap with her. Gently pulling the sheet from her face, he smirked a grin, "I'll check on you every ten minutes."

Grissom made several phone calls, including one to the lab and got Hodges as he was leaving.

"I've had a busy night, Gil, but I've got your results. Thought I would drop them off on my way home."

Grissom knew David Hodges wanted to be the source of any information he could gather—about Sara, about her condition, about his return—but he had resigned to accept Hodges' chattering to get results but it did not mean Hodges would learn much.

He checked on Sara again and closed the door to the bedroom. By the time he had moved his papers out of the living room and cleared the dining table, the doorbell rang.

Surprisingly, Hodges did not come in, but gave Grissom an envelope with the results at the door. "I won't come in," he said in a regretful voice. "You probably know I get out in the field now—long night—but you'll find it was what you thought. Caffeine—four thousand milligrams—a heaping teaspoon—in each packet—enough to kill an adult." Raking a hand through his hair, he asked, "Where'd you find these? You know, powdered caffeine is not regulated—as a supplement you can get bottles of the stuff even though this was a-a home-made package. A—a drinking straw, like you said."

"You sure you won't come in?"

"No, no—I need to go—exhausted—you remember how it can be. Tell Sara 'hello'—I hope she's back to work soon."

Grissom closed the door, as perplexed by Hodges as he had been while working in the lab.

An hour later, Sara opened her eyes to find her husband in bed with her. He was reading; she reached and touched his hand. His fingers caught hers, lacing together. The papers disappeared and his arm slid across her shoulder as she shifted toward him.

Her eyes seemed to blaze before they closed to feel his kiss, soft and tentative. He pulled away, concerned about where it might lead.

She made a groan of exasperation but firmly kept her fingers interlaced with his. "I cannot believe this—I feel so much better—you are home! And we can't do it!"

Grissom chuckled, lifting his head above hers as he said, "Progress, dear. It won't be much longer." His fingers played with a lock of her hair; his face softened with desire. "I have always loved you, Sara. Only you—there has never been anyone else."

With those words, he took her mouth in a slow, lingering kiss. She responded completely, hungry for the intimacy they had once shared. It did not matter that they could not physically make love, she told herself. He gave her a part of himself by being here and she could work with that—for now.

The rest of the day, they talked about caffeine, a common substance found in coffee, energy drinks, diet pills, and products sold to keep one alert. Sara joked about consuming coffee and caffeine jitters.

"We've got to report this," Grissom said. "You're sure Gracie said the water delivery guy was handing this out?"

"That's what she said—we can call her."

Grissom smiled. "What if I call and invite her to dinner? We have more food in the refrigerator than we'll ever eat. I'll drive over and get her."

Several hours later, after enjoying a dinner of penne pasta, squash, and mushrooms served by Grissom, Sara showed Gracie the lab results.

"It's really caffeine?" Gracie asked, her eyes wide with surprise. "And we broke the case! You and me!" She smiled with such satisfaction that Grissom hated to ask his questions.

"Gracie, are you sure it was the water delivery guy who gave out these packets? Did he ever try to give you any?"

The elderly woman frowned, saying, "Not the one who comes now. When I was there the first time, the delivery guy was always handing out 'free samples' and leaving stuff by the coffee. I tried some of the ones for coffee—it flavored the coffee—I remember hazelnut was one I liked."

"I'm going to give this to a friend of mine, Detective Lou Vartann. He's a nice guy—you'll like him—and he'll want to talk with you." Grissom grimaced, lifting an eyebrow, as he thought for a minute. "I'm not sure what kind of crime—if it is a crime—occurred, but you ladies did figure out what was causing these deaths—I'm sure of it."

Gracie's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Do we get to exhume a body? I've always wanted to go to the graveyard in the middle of the night—with fog and spotlights—like in the television shows—and see a body get dug up!"

Grissom and Sara laughed. "Oh! Gracie! You are so morbid!" Sara said as she laughed.

Shaking his head, Grissom said, "I don't think we'll be digging up any bodies, Gracie."

Later, Grissom filled a generous plate of food for Gracie to take home. Sara added several bouquets of flowers that had been brought to her.

"I'm more of a plant person," she insisted after telling Gracie to select flowers.

While Grissom was gone, driving Gracie back to her house, Sara's phone rang.

"Hello, Nick!" She was delighted to hear from her old friend.

"Sara! How was your first day at home?"

"Good—adjusting to things like not being able to reach the kitchen faucet, but otherwise, I'm so happy to be home."

For a few minutes, they talked about the lab, cases he had worked while she had been away until he asked, "Can I stop by later? I mean, in the morning—I'm heading to work now—but I don't want to come by too early."

"Sure! We'll be up."

Soon after Grissom returned, the two figured out how to give Sara a shower—which ended up being much easier than either thought it would be when Grissom stripped off his clothes and got in the shower with Sara. He wrapped a towel around his waist before drying Sara.

She giggled as he draped a towel around her shoulders. "I see a pickle growing."

"Don't even go there, dear," he warned as he placed her in the wheelchair.

Biting her lip, Sara managed to suppress another giggle, and not for the first time, she decided it was time to take action. With a smoothness and gentleness that continued to surprise her, he moved her from chair to bed.

"Nick is coming by in the morning," Sara said as Grissom placed the wedge pillow on the bed. "Are you coming to bed?"

"Yep—let me put on pajamas."

He heard a giggle as he pulled on pants.

Getting into bed with her, he growled, "Yes, Sara, I want to make love to you—very much. And those giggles I keep hearing are about as sexy as bathing you—but we can't—won't—until we get the 'okay' from your docs."

The sounds of his voice fired a tremor of determination in Sara. With her foot, she pushed the wedge pillow off the bed, sliding her hand along his thigh, and wondered how he had endured the past months without intimacy.

In a reckless flurry of movement, she pushed her hand inside his pants while she touched her lips to the curve of his neck. Nipping gently, her lips followed her fingers as she pushed his shirt away and kissed his chest.

He responded with a groan of pleasure. "Sara," he protested, "we shouldn't. We can't."

Another seductive giggle, "You don't have to do anything. I'm doing this."

Closing her eyes, her senses shifted from sight to smells, the fragrance of the soap he had used in the shower, a faint aroma of laundry softener, and the scent of his skin.

Grissom uttered a husky murmur as she moved lower, her lips seeking sensitive flesh. She pressed the palm of her fractured arm to his chest. "Relax," she whispered.

"That's not possible." The tone of his voice was low, laden with desire.

She eased herself down onto him, slowly with controlled effort, kissing her way down his belly. When she reached the thatch of curls and touched him with her tongue, the hard swell of him filled her with pleasure.

"Sara," he moaned, his hands threading through her hair.

She knew what to do. Her mouth descended in one swift move; her hand squeezed gently around his testicles. She glanced upward to find him watching her. She smiled, played her tongue around the tip of his erection and took him again, slowly, inch by inch, as their eyes remained locked.

Oh, God, he thought as she took him into her mouth; how had he forgotten this act of pleasure. Arousal built and rippled through his body as every cell in him focused on the exquisite sensation of having her pleasure him.

He tried to remain still but his body had trouble responding to his efforts; he hardened even more as she steadily brought him to a pinnacle of pleasure. He arched upward, several times, welcoming a shattering release more powerful than he had expected.

Sara remained in control as his heart hammered; she managed to keep her lips and fingers on his sensitive flesh as she started her way back up his body. With a rumbling laugh, she kissed his chest, drew a circle with her tongue, and kissed him again.

He wrapped arms around her and pulled her to him. He kissed her, then pulled back, releasing slowly. "That—that was unexpected—and beyond description."

"You look very—very happy," she said, causing him to smile even more. "Less worried, I think." She put her head against his shoulder.

He knew the position was uncomfortable for her, but like her, wanted the intimacy of this act to last longer. His finger traced an unseen line from her eye to her chin. "Soon, honey, soon."

She kissed his chin. "I know." She giggled that soft, sexy laugh he had loved for so long. "I've planned this all day." A second kiss to his chin.

Cupping her head with both hands, he held her for a long kiss, and then looked into her eyes. "How about I promise to worship your body for twenty-four hour—anyway you want—as soon as you get an okay from your docs?"

She smiled against his mouth, "That would be perfect."

_A/N: Thank you for reading! And a big thank you to those who review! A few more chapters coming..._


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: And a new chapter! _

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 20 **

The second night at home, Sara went to sleep without her cast propped on a wedge pillow. Instead, Grissom gently gathered her into his arms, placing her fractured leg in its cast over his thigh so they faced each other.

"This is much better," he whispered against her ear.

"It cannot be comfortable for you."

He chuckled. "I'll sleep better than I have in weeks."

"My leg is heavy."

His hand gently stroked her back. "It weighs nothing, dear." He kissed her nose. "Close your eyes. If I wake up before you, I'll put the wedge under your leg.

Sara closed her eyes and pressed her face against the curve of his neck. She had no words to describe how she felt about the man who held her.

For Grissom, the feel of her skin, the way she pressed herself closer to him, nearly snapped the last threads of his control.

Sara woke thinking that was something not quite real—perhaps she was dreaming—in the way she lay in bed. Her head lay on Grissom's shoulder; her fractured arm across his chest. The pale sunlight filtering around the window formed a warm halo around the curly hair on the pillow next to her. She had moved in the night; a pillow curled around her husband's thigh. Her leg rested on the pillow, stiffly sticking up in the air. Grissom's hand rested on her butt.

She thought she had laughed silently at their positions—certainly not what the physicians and therapists had suggested—but she must have made a noise because Grissom's eyes opened instantly. He grinned.

"This is more like it—I'm happy to be home—and I'm happy you are home," he whispered.

It took them a while to get out of bed but eventually they did. Lazy, Sara said. Not lazy, Grissom replied. There was no hurry. And then they remembered the promised visit.

Not long after they were dressed, Nick arrived with a box of breakfast foods from a well-liked Mexican restaurant, enough to feed five or six people. Within minutes tacos and burritos, refried beans and potatoes, and accompanying sauces were spread on the table.

"I know you never get tired of this stuff," Nick said as he helped himself to a burrito.

Sara's answer was a satisfied murmur as she bit into a soft taco.

They talked about finding pure caffeine in the rehab center and discussed what it meant, the next steps to take, and could find no consensus on if a crime had been committed. Nick agreed to contact the water delivery company to track the delivery man in an unofficial way.

"Whatever we decide, we need to meet with everyone at the facility. They need to know—but caffeine is considered a supplement and does not fall under any state or federal regulations like food or drugs; I don't think anyone will consider this as a crime," Grissom said.

A while later, after most of the food had disappeared, Nick pushed back from the table; a solemn frown clouded his face. He said, "I wanted you to eat before I brought bad news."

Slowly, Grissom placed his coffee cup on the table; a finger wiped across his upper lip.

"Who?" Sara asked.

Shaking his head as he fiddled with his fork, Nick grimaced and said, "Tina—it's about Tina. She was brought in last night—swing shift got the call." Wiping a hand over his face, he said, "Tina died last night."

For a few seconds, Sara's mouth fell open. Then she asked, "Eli! Where's Eli?"

"Greg and Jim got Eli as soon as Jim heard."

Grissom asked, "What happened?"

"You should have told me last night," Sara said.

Nick shook his head, saying, "She was partying—bad crowd from what Jim heard—appears to be from an overdose." He shrugged his shoulders so perceptively that Sara knew he was deciding what to say. "She'll get an autopsy and we'll know more."

"I thought she was doing much better. Poor Eli—where was he?" Sara had grabbed his arm.

Raking a hand over his head, Nick said, "That's another issue—Eli was at home—alone." He blinked several times, looked away, and when his eyes returned to meet Sara's, his lashes were damp. "The place is a pig sty, Sara. Poor kid was trying to put together a meal—Jim said he didn't know where his mother was."

"And he went with Jim? No questions?" Asked Sara.

"Seems Jim is on a first name basis with Eli—don't know about Tina—but he was willing—happy to go with Jim."

Grissom sighed. Sara looked at him, tears in her eyes. He picked up his phone. "He's almost seven, right?" He scrolled names until he found Jim Brass.

"Ask Jim to bring him here," Sara whispered.

An understanding grin edged around Nick's mouth, "I knew you would say that, Sara. But—but you—you can't take care of him! You've got weeks of therapy." His hand folded over hers. "Sara, I didn't tell you last night because I knew you needed rest. You can't even get in a car—and I didn't want to tell you over the phone."

Grissom said, "Hello, Jim. We heard you have a visitor."

Nick and Sara looked at each other, unable to hear Jim's part of the conversation.

"Bring him here—we'll figure out something." Grissom made several sounds of agreement before saying, "We'll see you soon."

Sara asked, "Has Eli been told? What about Tina's parents?"

Shaking his head, Nick answered, "Her father died several years ago. Her mother is in a nursing home in St. Louis. Eli," another slight shrug, "Eli hasn't—Jim fed him, let him watch a movie til he fell asleep, and took him to breakfast this morning. He says—according to Eli—the boy hasn't been in school since December."

Grissom had gotten up from the table, disappearing into another room.

"I went by the house several times," Sara said. "Tina looked good. She'd gotten a job, but she was never friendly—never let me in the door." Her chin trembled. "I saw Eli once or twice—playing outside."

Nick nodded. "At Christmas last year and the year before, Greg and I went by, took a few things for Eli but Tina was—was—not too happy we were there. Eli was thrilled—wanted to know about his dad."

"Poor little guy." Sara sighed. "Hard on someone so young to lose both parents."

Grissom returned with a thin folder in his hand. Placing it on the table, he slid it toward Sara. "I never thought I'd be using this. Honestly, what are the chances?"

Nick and Sara glanced up at his enigmatic face; Sara opened the file to find a death certificate for Warrick Brown. She flipped it and found a copy of a will. Her finger ran down the page to the signatures to see "Tina Brown Brewster" and a date of June, 2008. Witness signatures included Jim Brass.

Standing behind Sara, Grissom pointed to the second paragraph.

Quickly, Sara read the paragraph. In the few seconds it took for her to read the lines, Nick watched as her face transformed; a smile tugged at her lips.

"What?" He asked.

"Tina is dead—and, out of this—we get Eli?" She turned to her husband, asking, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Placing his hand on her shoulder, he sat beside her. "I never thought—I never thought it would come to this. It was a—a formality. One day Tina called and asked if Jim and I would meet her at a lawyer's office. The lawyer was the one who suggested she name a guardian for Eli if something happened to her—so when I got there, she asked and I agreed."

Sara's fingers touched her closed eyes for a moment. "We'll get Eli? You don't think it's been changed? Tina could have changed it."

Leaning over, Grissom kissed her forehead. "I doubt it, but I'll call this lawyer—get things set into motion. We—we'll keep things as simple as possible—for Eli." A hand went to his face, sweeping across in an effort to remove worry.

Bexar pawed at Grissom's knee and, instinctively, he lifted the dog to his lap. He said, "We have nothing here for a little boy. Nick, do you think you could go over—to their house—and pick up some things? Clothes, toys, whatever you think he'll want." His hand patted the dog. "We'll have to do something with the house—clean it up, keep it for Eli—but for now—just—just make sure the door is locked."

Nick realized he had seen a subtle change take place—not just Sara but in Grissom as well. A thought so fleeting he almost missed it bloomed in his mind—a child—Sara wanted a child. Her eyes gleamed with an unusual brightness. He looked at Grissom and realized he was looking at the face of a man who loved his wife. There was some kind of mysterious connection taking place in front of him—something he did not understand—but it was meaningful, momentous as their eyes remained on the other.

As he stood, Sara's eyes left Grissom; she said, "I'll call Catherine—she'll help."

Nodding, Nick said, "I don't think there is much there, Grissom. Greg said the house was a mess."

"There's always something, Nick, that a kid wants—look around his bed," Sara said. She wiped her eyes again. "And clothes—his favorites will be ones that are dirty or worn—faded—and maybe something to sleep with—his pillow."

Nick had to smile. "I'll bring everything I can."

For several minutes, Sara and Grissom sat in silence after Nick left.

Finally, Grissom said, "I never thought about mentioning this because—because," both palms went upward, "I never thought it would happen. Tina was so young!"

"It's okay—fine," Sara made a soft laugh. "We weren't even married then."

With a thoughtful smile, Grissom said, "I don't guess we were." He looked around the room and asked, "What do we do now?"

"Wait—if Eli knows Jim and feels comfortable with him, maybe he should tell him about his mother. But we'll all be together. Eli needs to know he has a place to live—someone to look after him."

Grissom squeezed her hand. "We'll manage."

Sara called Catherine who insisted she would be there as soon as possible. After hanging up, Sara said, "We may overwhelm Eli."

They did not have time to think about that possibility because the doorbell rang and Jim and Eli arrived. The two dogs were the first to greet the boy—tails wagging as if the boy was a life-long friend—and immediately a bond began to develop between boy and dogs—much to the surprise of the two dog owners.

The usually docile dogs met Eli at the door, excited and wary to meet a newcomer; when the child bent on knees to their level, asking in the general direction of the adults if it was okay to play with them, he stroked Sally Sue's head and scratched Bexar's back, giggling as the dogs seemed to realize a boy needed reassurance to be a playmate. In minutes, there was a puddle of white and brown fur mixed with a pair of gangly legs and arms on the floor of the living room.

Brass shrugged, chuckling, before he said, "He's a good kid." He jerked a thumb toward dogs and boy, adding, "And he loves dogs! Who knew?"

In a low voice, Grissom said, "And who knew the dogs loved kids?"

As Eli and the dogs continued to play, Grissom got leashes and two balls and asked if Eli would like to walk the dogs.

"Yes, sir! I've never walked a dog before—but I've seen people doing it." The boy smiled as he gathered Bexar in his arms while Grissom hooked leash to collar.

Sara insisted Jim go with the two. "Catherine is coming. Nick should be back soon. I'll be fine."

For the first time, Eli studied Sara. "Why are you in a wheelchair? I remember you coming to my house."

"I have a broken arm and a broken leg," she explained. "So I'm sort of in a mess—I have to have a lot of help to do things."

Eli smiled. The three adults had a déjà vu moment as the smile of Warrick Brown crossed his son's face. The boy said, "I can help. My mom says I'm good at helping."

_A/N: Surprised? Thanks for reading! And we appreciate hearing from you!_


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Thank you for reading._

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 21 **

For the next two days, Sara, Grissom and Eli rarely left each other's company. And more often than not, Catherine was there; Jim, Nick, and Greg arrived at meal time with food for a small army and at least one of them stayed for hours. What quickly became apparent to all of the adults was the maturity and intelligence of the little boy.

Obedient and trusting to a fault, Eli was precociously articulate in his conversations causing the adults to realize he had been watching and listening to everything around him for years. When told of his mother's death, he had asked who would he live with and accepted Grissom's response with a simple nod. The child asked about a funeral for his mother and suggested a grave side service since he nor his mother were regular church goers.

When Eli's eyes clouded with tears, Sara hugged and comforted him with an affection that surprised Catherine, but not the others. To a man, each one realized a long-held and well-hidden acceptance of life as it is had lifted from Sara's eyes. None could have named this revelation because Sara had always been beautiful, intelligent, meticulously hard-working, but now she radiated joy.

In a few short minutes, Eli decided he liked all of these adults when one place a glass of cold root beer with a scoop of vanilla ice cream floating in it in front of him. As he noisily sucked root beer and melting ice cream through a straw, the people around him talked, assuring him he was going to be taken care of; Grissom explained that in a few days they would meet with a lawyer and a judge who would look at a paper his mother had signed and make it official that he would live with the Grissoms. There was no yelling or swearing; everyone was smiling.

The child found it easy to accept their welcome and kindness; he had been exposed to his mother's friends, who never kept promises, who were scary, and took things from their home. Sometimes, he hid under his bed. These people were different, he decided, and his trust in Captain Jim easily passed to the others. In their company, Eli found their conversations to be unlike anything he knew from living with his mother.

Grissom and Greg disappeared for a while and Grissom returned driving a bright red mini-van. His explanation: "We need a vehicle we'll all fit in." As Sara stared at it, he added, "It's a rental for a month. I didn't want you to have to depend on a transport van."

For two hours, Jim, Grissom, and Eli worked on a ramp, deciding the best place to park the van so Sara could be rolled in and transferred to a seat. At the same time, Catherine helped turn a guest room into a boy's room as Sara served as "supervisor". Sara wasn't fooled—Catherine was doing the work and did not need a supervisor.

As she spread a new coverlet over the bed, Catherine said, "Every boy loves big trucks—next to dinosaurs according to the woman at the store." She smoothed the truck printed fabric and then sat on the bed. "I—I really am sad about Tina, but you and Gil will give him a much more stable life." Reaching for a pillow, she wrapped arms around it, and asked, "Did you and Gil ever consider—every think about having kids? I mean—well, you never said—I—I—well, I wondered…"

Sara, emotions already on edge, struggled a moment to put her thoughts into words. Softly, she said, "We could not have kids, Catherine. We waited too long." Pausing a few seconds, she continued, "When we thought we might be able to try—to try other routes, we were too old to adopt."

Catherine, suddenly realizing the cause of their long-distance marriage, asked, "Gil? He—he couldn't—he couldn't father children? That's why he left—why he stayed away."

Blinking away tears, Sara said, "I guess everyone thinks about having children at some point in life—most of the time, I was doing what I could to avoid pregnancy, and then we got so busy—so many things happened." Through tears, she softly laughed, "and then when we decided it was time—we couldn't—and thought it was me, you know—so I came back to Vegas to get checked out." She shrugged, "Only to learn it wasn't just me—both of us."

Catherine got up and walked over to the woman she had considered a friend for longer than she cared to remember. Her hand passed across Sara's shoulders in a gentle caress. "Oh, Sara! Why don't you ever speak up about your problems, honey! I know you don't want sympathy—but that doesn't mean you couldn't share what's bothering you."

She took Sara's face in her hands, smiled, and kissed the top of her head. "Eli's got a good home now," she said. "And at least once a week—at least—I want to hear all about him—and Gil—and you. This is going to be the best adventure you two have ever had."

Nick and Greg brought toys—remote control cars, building sets, a football, a basketball—and stayed to play. Nick had done as Sara asked and brought several bags of clothing, a few toys, and photographs from Eli's home.

"It's filthy, Sara," he whispered. "And not much there you want to bring into your house." He held up the bags of clothes, saying, "Laundry—all of this. I'll do it."

Around Catherine, Eli was dazzled which meant his tongue turned into a tangling looseness that lead to giggling conversations. Later, he admitted to Sara he thought Catherine must be some kind of magical fairy delivering packages like Santa Claus. He also thought Sara and Catherine were the cleanest, sweetest-smelling people he had ever been around.

He was fascinated with Sara's arm, covered in its mesh cast, and with the wheelchair, watching with intense eyes as she removed the armrest and placed a board so she could slide from wheelchair to sofa. She let him inspect the mesh cast as she explained how she'd gotten hurt—which he thought of as an adventure.

"I'll push you around," he said as he sat in the wheelchair and played with moving parts.

Jim Brass was treated as a favorite uncle. Sara and Grissom learned he had been going by Tina's house for months with bags of hamburgers and breakfast foods, eating with Eli on the porch or at the curb, talking quietly to Eli about his father. Tina never knew and, while Brass had never suggested his visits be kept secret, the boy realized his mother would not approve, so he had remained silent.

Doc Robbins called Grissom with results of Tina's autopsy. Drugs had been found in her system, but not enough to cause death. Searching for a cause, he had found an aortic dissection in the upper aorta.

"Death within minutes," Doc Robbins explained. "She had pain but it was probably masked by the drugs. The investigator said those with her said she had been asleep, woke up, and walked around before she 'fainted'. Cocaine use contributed, but she may have had a weakness in the aorta or an aneurysm. That's what killed her—not the drugs."

Eli, with the resilience and spirit of youth, accepted the situation as it was. Independence has been developed through necessity—he could do many things but he also knew he needed adults. In his short life, with the loss of a father he never knew, the isolation imposed by his mother, and now her death, he had been forced to survive. Yet the child had hope and in this circle of adults—friends of his father—he recognized goodness.

Instinctively, Eli knew he had met the people who would change the direction of his life, and he would change forever and for the better. With the absence of his mother, who was usually good to him, he wrapped his mind around the change in his circumstances and accepted it.

After dinner, after everyone had left, Grissom showed Eli how to work the shower controls and where to find towels and toothpaste.

"This will be your bathroom," Grissom said as he handed a fresh bar of soap to the child.

"This is very nice of you—of you and Sara—to give me a place to sleep."

Grissom smiled. "Our home is your home now, Eli. You've brought us what we need." His eyes sparkled; he cleared his throat as he added, "When you finish, come back to the living room. Sara wants to tell you good night."

Eli nodded. "She's going to get well, isn't she? I mean—she won't be in a wheelchair forever, will she?"

"No," Grissom assured him. "She goes to therapy where they will help her walk again. In a month or so, she'll be chasing you and Sally Sue and Bexar all the way to the park."

When Eli grinned, Grissom became almost breathless at the resemblance to the child's father. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Get your shower—towels, pajamas—anything else you need?"

The boy shook his head. "I can take a fast shower," he said.

Grissom chuckled, "Well, you can take a long one or a short one, but clean all the necessary parts." He pointed his finger at Eli, laughing as he said, "And I'm going to check behind your ears afterwards!"

Giggling, Eli pulled his shirt over his head.

After his shower, Sara let Eli select a Netflix movie, explaining he could watch it from their bed while Grissom helped her take a shower. He was fascinated by the structure over the bed, asking a dozen questions about it.

"This is pretty cool," he said. "I could swing from that triangle."

Sara laughed, "But you won't—you can't. I need it—but if you want a real swing, I think there's a place in the backyard where you can have one."

Ignoring the movie, Eli said, "At my house, I have a fort—it's not really a fort—but I pretend it is. A girl outgrew her playhouse so she gave it to me to have a fort."

"Watch your movie," Sara said. "We'll work on getting you a fort in this yard too."

It took longer for Sara to shower than it had taken Eli; when she and Grissom returned to the bedroom, Eli was curled between two dogs; boy and dogs were asleep.

"He didn't even finish his movie," whispered Sara.

Grissom gently lifted the sleeping boy into his arm. "I'll be right back." The dogs woke and followed Grissom. Minutes later, he returned. "The dogs appear to have a new place to sleep."

"Did he wake up?"

Grissom pushed the wheelchair to the bed and when Sara reached for the trapeze bar over the bed, he said, "You've had a long day—I'll move you."

"You have to be exhausted," she whispered as he lifted her out of the chair and placed her on the bed. The wedge pillow came next.

He lifted her leg and placed in on the pillow. Laughing, he said, "We'd better do as ordered tonight—don't want your foot swelling."

Sara adjusted the wedge and patted the bed for him to join her.

"Stay awake—quick shower. We need to talk."

By the time Grissom returned, Sara had managed to start a list. As he crawled into bed, she said, "You smell nice."

Leaning over, he kissed her. "So do you. Now, what's on that list of yours?"

_A/N: Now, leave us a comment! A few more chapters to go..._


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: Thanks for reading!_

**I Keep On Loving You**

**Chapter 22 **

Three days later, a small group gathered around the grave of Eli's mother while the minister of the Baptist church next to the cemetery read a passage of hope from his Bible, adding a short prayer to end the service.

Eli, proving again that his maturity and intelligence far exceeded his age, shook hands with everyone and accepted hugs from the women who filed passed him as they left the cemetery. The hands on his back, one belonging to Sara, the other to Grissom, caused him to keep his back straight and his shoulders squared. He wasn't going to be a slouch in front of his dad's old friends.

At the end of the day, Sara lay in bed, pillows piled under her head; everything had changed, she thought, in ways she had never dared to dream. There had been periods in her life when she had been unable to entertain enough optimism to believe anyone might be truly happy, anywhere, anytime. Yet, she had a basic faith in the rightness of the world, the existence of courage, and, most of all, in love. And, in spite of half the day spent burying a little boy's mother, she was peacefully happy.

As her husband entered the bedroom, she quickly wiped her eyes because, especially with happiness, tears came easily.

"Is he asleep?"

"Yes," Grissom said with a smile. "He loves sleeping with Bexar and Sally Sue." He held his phone and passed it to her.

The photograph on the screen was of Eli in bed, his arm wrapped around Sally Sue. The smaller white dog curled around his shoulder.

"This is okay, isn't it? I—I never had a dog when I was growing up."

Grissom laughed. "Its fine—kids sleep with animals all over the world." His eyebrows lifted in amusement as he said, "He feels a responsibility for them—took them outside this morning. Reminded me when we were at Catherine's that we shouldn't leave the dogs alone too long."

As he climbed into bed, Sara said, "It was nice of Catherine to have lunch for everyone."

"It was. You have to be exhausted. We've had quite a week."

Softly, Sara laughed, a rolling rumbling ripple of laughter that caused her husband to ask, "What is so funny?"

"Quite a week is one way to describe it." She rolled to face Grissom—a task made much easier by the new cast on her leg—and he easily moved into a comfortable embrace. Her lips pressed into his hair. "What about school? We need to get him in school."

"Tomorrow afternoon, I'm meeting Lou and we are going to Red Rocks, meet with the administrator, and talk about the caffeine packets. Nick managed to locate three drivers who delivered water to the facility during the time—all admit to leaving free samples of flavoring. None remember or admit to seeing the stuff." Grissom said as he turned to face her.

"What about Eli?"

"He can stay in the van," Grissom chuckled. "I'll leave the windows cracked."

For a few seconds, Sara said nothing, and then she giggled. "How long did you work on that one?"

"When Jim said he'd take Eli for the afternoon, I knew what I'd tell you." He laughed again and lightly kissed her. "As for school—I—I don't know where to start! Can't we—can't we just let him play?"

Pulling a pillow from underneath her head, Sara wrapped arms and the pillow around him. "He needs to be around other kids. Poor guy, he's had to be the adult too often in his life—he needs to be a kid—have friends over." She moved a hand to the back of his head and pulled his face to hers. A slight lift brought her lips to his; against his mouth, she murmured, "And he needs a fort—a real little boy fort."

"We've got a lot to do—and to learn."

Sara sighed. "I don't feel like I'm doing much."

"Yes, you are. Eli loves the attention he gets from you. And he is very interested in your therapy—he watches everything you do."

"He does?" Tears sprang to her eyes. "I want him to know he's loved—that this is his home."

Grissom slipped an arm underneath Sara's shoulders, pulling her close. She would never admit how similar her childhood situation had been to the one Eli could have faced. "He knows—he'll know. We'll work on the school situation—he knows he will live with us. And he is a good boy—an innate kindness and desire to please."

Sara snuggled closer. "The lawyer thinks everything will go? There is no one else to get custody?"

"He says we'll have an official adoption in ninety days. There are no relatives—except his grandmother who is in a nursing home." Gently, his hand caressed her arm. "We'll get everything worked out."

The next afternoon, Sara stood on her own feet for the first time in over a month. She nearly fainted—probably would have fainted except waves of nausea kept her upright as she moved one foot in front of the other for two steps. Then she sat down in the wheelchair that was practically touching her calves.

Everyone around her celebrated; Sara managed to breathe.

"Is everyone so dizzy?" She asked as someone handed her a cold wet cloth.

"Yes!" came the answer from one of the physical therapist. "You are doing great. Ready to try again?"

She took a deep breath and nodded.

Therapy was not easy. On the first day, the therapists had clipped Sara into a harness and moved her around like she was a blimp tethered to parallel bars. A new, lighter cast with hinges at the knee had replaced the heavy one. Three therapists and assistants handled her body as if it was made of tinker toys—and on the day she stood, her legs felt like gelatin.

Sara stood again—not really standing because, with the harness, she was lifted to her feet.

"Let's go for three steps."

The young man at her side was handsome with a quick smile. Sara made a smiling grimace. He wasn't taking the three steps with legs that had not walked since landing at the bottom of a manhole weeks ago. When she groaned, the wheelchair touched her calves and she sank into the chair.

"Take a break—this is hard work," the same therapist said.

After a ten minute break, they got her up again—and the afternoon passed slowly until Sara finally got to the end of the parallel bars. It had taken nearly three hours, but everyone saluted and congratulated her as if she had finished a marathon.

Several miles away, Grissom and Lou Vartann had met with the administrator of Red Rocks. Immediately, he called for a meeting of department heads and asked Grissom and Vartann to explain what had been discovered. In fifteen minutes, the room was filled; Rhonda and Dona stood near Grissom.

Extending his hand, he shook hands with both women. Instead of making a familiar introduction, he whispered, "Neither of you are mentioned in this—it all started with Gracie."

Dona laughed and pumped his hand. "It's nice to see you again, Dr. Grissom!"

Grissom spoke first, explaining that his wife was an investigator for the police department and, when Gracie had talked about men dying while in rehab from drinking water, Sara had gotten interested enough to ask questions. She had learned from several sources that the facility was concerned about unexpected deaths. Curiosity and Gracie's ability to search the coffee cabinet in the rehab area resulted in finding several small tube-like packages containing a white powder. Testing had found pure caffeine packaged in drinking straws cut and sealed in two inch long packets—enough to cause overdose and death that would appear to be cardiac arrest.

The fifteen or so people sitting and standing in the administrator's office appeared to be stunned by Grissom's words. No one asked questions as he turned to Vartann who immediately continued, explaining the investigation that had taken place with the water delivery men.

"We have no other leads," Vartann said. "Caffeine is a supplement and, other than turning it over to the Food and Drug Administration to investigate, there may be no actual crime—not that we can investigate." He shook his head in disbelief. "If any of you know anything—remember anything—we want you to contact the department."

A woman sitting at the table with the administrator asked, "It wasn't murder?"

Grissom and Vartann gave each other frustrated glances. Vartann said, "At this point, we leave this as a potential case. If any of you—anyone—remembers anything about these men—we don't want speculation, but we want anything that might have happened. Did anyone give them water or coffee—force it on them?" He looked around the room, imploring someone to talk.

Rhonda, the therapist who had worked with Sara and provided names to Grissom, fluttered her hand and said, "We keep good records of who comes and goes in rehab—visitors sign in."

"What about salesmen? Anyone delivering equipment? Bringing in supplies?" Grissom asked.

Shaking her head, Rhonda said, "No salesmen—we meet those outside of rehab. Supplies come from in-house. Deliveries are done the same way. Our residents—privacy is important." Shaking her head, she continued, "I remember one delivery guy who brought in water bottles who was always giving out those flavor packets. He wasn't pushy, just giving out free samples. But, I never saw anything but name brands."

Another woman spoke up, "Rhonda, do you remember that young man—has to be a year ago—he was all muscled up. Came in after a knee replacement—he was always guzzling stuff—several energy drinks a day—he wanted to 'work out' in rehab after we left and you said no way was he staying without a therapist."

Rhonda had turned to face the woman, holding up a finger as if she were silently counting. "Thomas—Thomas—what was his last name?"

People shook their heads and murmured to each other; Grissom gave them time to think before asking, "How many men named Thomas were admitted twelve to eighteen months ago?"

A woman in the corner said, "We can find out—take a while because we use last names for records."

"Martin—Morton—yes, Morton," said Rhonda. "Thomas Morton. He bragged that he was a body-builder!"

"I can find his record," the woman in the corner left the room.

A few seconds of silence followed her departure, and then everyone seemed to talk at once. No one else in the room remembered the man.

Grissom and Vartann did not try to answer questions or discuss the issue. It seemed most of the talk centered on caffeine and speculation about energy drinks. A few minutes later, the woman entered the room with a thin file folder.

"Thomas Morton, admitted sixteen months ago, stayed for nine days." She was reading and flipping through the chart as she came to Grissom. "Here for physical therapy."

"Home address?" Grissom asked as he took the file. The woman nodded.

Vartann wrote down the address and several telephone numbers as well as place of employment—a gym. Without saying a word, he looked at Grissom, headed to the door, and by the time he was in the hall, he was calling Nick Stokes.

Grissom stayed for a while, visiting with the nurses, therapists, and others who had taken care of Sara. He had a quick whispered conversation with Dona asking the woman several questions. Dona promised to visit soon and promised a solution to one of his questions.

An hour later, he met Jim Brass and Eli at McDonalds where both were eating burgers and fries.

"He was hungry," Jim said as Grissom approached the table.

Eli grinned. "We had a good time looking at sharks. And I got to touch a sting-ray!"

"Shark Reef?" asked Grissom.

Both man and boy nodded.

"And we saw piranhas and a Komodo dragon!" Eli said as he dipped a French fry into ketchup. "We didn't see them eat anything. I want to go back to see the piranhas eat!"

Grissom agreed, "We'll go back. I'd like to see that too." Glancing at his watch, he said, "We need to pick up Sara in about thirty minutes."

With eyes wide, Eli asked, "Can I play on the playground for five minutes?"

"Sure," Grissom said.

A few minutes later, Eli wrapped his food trash into a ball. "May I go?"

Grissom nodded and the boy disappeared into a maze of brightly colored tunnels and slides.

Brass waited until Eli was out of earshot before he said, "He's a good kid. Never been to the aquarium."

"We need to get him in a school, Jim." Making an inquisitive expression with his face, Grissom asked, "I don't guess you know anything about the schools?"

Chuckling, shaking his head, Brass said, "I know nothing. What about your neighborhood school?"

"Yeah, I think I'll go there tomorrow—take Eli and see what happens."

"What about Sara?"

Glancing again at his watch, Grissom said, "She's hooked in a harness being moved around at the rehab institute. So tired last night she could barely eat. I've asked one of the women at Red Rocks to help me find a housekeeper. You wouldn't know one of those, would you?"

Another chuckle from Brass, "No, I don't know any housekeepers."

For several minutes, the two men talked about Sara and her progress.

"Slow going," Grissom said, "but she's standing—not weight bearing but standing with this harness thing to hold her up. At home, she still in a wheelchair but thinks she'll get her arm cast off in a week. She's holding her breath."

"No problems with Eli? What does the lawyer say?"

Grissom grinned broadly. "He's ours—not officially for ninety days—and we haven't talked about name changes—don't know what we'll do."

Brass looked downward; his hands folded his trash into a paper square. "If you need anything, let me know." He looked up into Grissom's face. "I'll be happy to have him, take him to do things—but I mean money—if you need money."

Frowning, Grissom said, "We're fine—we don't need money."

"You might." Brass shrugged his shoulders. "It's a way I can seek forgiveness."

The puzzling frown stayed on Grissom's face. "Forgiveness for what?"

Brass cleared his throat and wiped a hand across his face in an effort to hide emotions. "For what I said to Warrick the last time I saw him."

Grissom's eyes questioned.

"I said 'I hope you remember how lucky you are'. Warrick was smart, Gil. His son needs—deserves anything I can do for him."

_A/N: Probably 2 more chapters._ Thanks for reading and reviews!


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Thank you for reading! _

**I Keep On Loving You **

**Chapter 23 **

Three weeks after Sara had entered the rehab institute with its state of the art physical therapy, she walked twenty feet with only the aid of a walker. For the first time since her accident, she was upright on pelvic bones that were ninety percent healed and, as long as she did not attempt to walk or run a mile long marathon, she could move in an upright position. Short distances—but at least she was moving upright.

Later in the day, she had an appointment with her orthopedic physician with expectations of having the cast on her leg removed and being discharged from therapy—or at least every day therapy.

As she made her way along a long curved hallway covered with a variety of surfaces and with a beautiful view of the mountains to the west, her ever-ready therapy assistant walking beside her, they talked about children. The assistant had three, two in elementary school, and Sara had found the woman to be a reliable source of information for conquering the maze of public education.

"I don't think Eli eats enough lunch," Sara said as she placed the walker on paving stones. She added, "I hate walking on these things!"

"Does he tell you he doesn't get enough food? Be careful—these things are tricky and for some reason, they are used everywhere!"

Silently, Sara maneuvered the walker along the pavers, carefully placing her feet firmly before moving again. Finally, she stepped on a carpeted surface.

She continued, "When he gets home, he is starving—I'm talking a sandwich, a glass of milk, a bowl of ice cream—and two or three hours later, he's ready to eat dinner! It's like his little body is hollow!"

The assistant laughed, saying, "He's growing! What time is his lunch? Probably before noon, so three hours pass before he gets home. Kids eat every three hours!"

"Sara!"

Sara did not have to turn around to know Benita had arrived with lunch. Since she had been at the institute—literally a stone's throw from the hospital—Benita had shown up at least once a week with lunch. She and Dona had also found a housekeeper who came to the Grissom's twice a week.

Slowly, the three women returned to the institute's dining room where they spent an hour eating and in easy conversation.

"Dr. Cade is the one you'll see this afternoon, Sara," Benita said as they finished eating. "He's the older guy—you've seen him before, haven't you?"

"I don't care who I see—just want to get out of this cast and—and move on."

The therapy assistant shook her head. "He's not going to discharge you yet, girlfriend."

Later, after the cast was cut from her leg, the physician and the nurse washed her skin with a soft cloth and dried it until the color of her skin reminded her of the pink flamingos at one of the casinos on The Strip.

Sara grimaced as the nurse applied lotion. "It looks like I have a fur coat of hair on it!"

The nurse laughed, "Don't shave it for a few days. I'll put a long stocking on your leg and give you a couple to take home. Just wash and pat it dry." A few minutes later, she said, "Let's see how well you can stand on it."

Her leg felt odd, weak without the cast, but she managed to make several steps with the walker. The doctor gave an approving smile.

He said, "Keep using the walker. Your pelvic bones are almost healed—I don't want you to fall at this point."

"What about therapy?" asked Sara.

Looking through her record, he made a soft grunt. "What about two days a week for therapy? A couple of hours so the therapists can check you gait and strength—you're almost back to normal."

Using the walker for support, Sara turned to face the physician and the nurse. "Normal would be nice," she said with a soft laugh. "Okay, doc, how much back to normal am I? Can I—can I—you know." She knew she was blushing. In a rush she asked, "Can I have sex now?"

Grissom swore he could hear every drop of water as it glided down Sara's body. And he was in the bedroom with plans put into play. Fresh sheets folded back, a lamp on its lowest setting, Eli sound asleep, and the dogs sleeping beside the boy. A small plate of cheese and fruit and a bottle of wine sat on the bedside table.

He did not want to cut short the pleasure of her bath even though every splash of water made his heart beat faster, so he paced.

When she had finally made it to the van using the walker and minus the cast on her leg, she had turned to look at him, and without a word, he had seen the unmistakable excitement in her eyes. It had hit him like a punch, suddenly reminding him after so many months of the sweet, feminine passion he had experienced with her in the past—and of passion and desire to come.

"Gil?"

"Yes." Instantly, he was standing at the door of the bathroom.

"I'll need your help getting out of the tub." She said it casually as if she was asking for a drink of water yet the tone of her voice flowed with potential.

Taking a towel from the stack near the tub, he smiled as he wrapped it around her shoulders; water sloshed and slid from her naked body. A little breath shushed between her teeth as air touched her wet skin. As his hand brought the towel around her, his knuckles touched her nipple; he almost gasped at the erotic implication of what was to come.

The look in her dark eyes caused every muscle in his body to tighten. If he moved, he would have her on the bed before either said a word. He managed to smile.

As he helped her out of the tub, she made a sound of annoyance. "My leg looks like a hairy dog's leg."

Chuckling, he sat her on a bath stool, took another towel and dried her legs. "These beautiful legs do not look like a dog's legs. Neither one." He took extra care on the one that had been wrapped in a cast for eight weeks. So long that he felt his own arousal pressing against his thigh as he knelt before her.

Glancing up, he met her eyes; saw the confident curve of a smile on her lips. Instantly, he thought of the moment she had claimed his heart so completely—realizing it had not been one time but many—her dark eyes had captured him from their first meeting. The soft spot in her heart for every child, every battered victim, and every wounded animal had strengthen his love for the sweet, vulnerable woman who had proven to be unquestionable and absolute in her love for him.

Instead of using the walker, he wrapped an arm around her while she leaned into his embrace and, slowly, they made their way to the bed.

"It looks like we're having a celebration," Sara said as a somewhat mischievous smile playing across her face. Easily, she raised her legs onto the bed and scooted to the middle of it, keeping a towel wrapped around her body.

Her husband grinned and returned to the bathroom where he brought the walker and placed it beside the bed. Reaching for a wine glass, he raised it, asking, "Would you?"

She nodded, holding her thumb and index finger an inch apart. "Only a little."

He poured wine in both glasses; held her eyes for several seconds, silently sharing memories of the past and, quickly, he placed the glass he was holding beside the wine bottle, and stretched his fingertips to her face.

Intentionally, she caught his hand and brought it to her mouth where she let her tongue flick against his fingers.

"Sara, you are the most beautiful woman I know."

Her cheeks colored with the compliment as if she had never heard it from him before now. "You are perfect—and more precious to me than anything in my life." He picked up one of the wine glasses and held it so Sara could take a sip. He ran his thumb over her lower lip.

With eyes that suddenly glistened, Sara looked at him with such longing that his need and feelings overwhelmed all of his plans. His knees bent as he crawled onto the bed, instantly kissing her, tasting the wine as he slid his tongue along her lip.

One of her hands came to rest in the center of his chest, over his heart, and she made a low sound of need. Her mouth molded to his. Her palm slid to his neck as the towel fell away.

Immediately, he was lost in the heat of her body, hearing soft sighs as they deepened the kiss. All he knew was that he wanted her, needed her, loved her. Driven by a deafening pounding of his heart, he lifted his mouth from hers; glancing down he caught the breathtaking view of her pale skin. The towel had fallen away to reveal the soft curves of her breasts, her pink nipples taut.

For a moment, he stared. And then his hand was there, cupping her breast, his thumb whisking over her nipple, sexually seeking discovery and pleasure that had not been forgotten, only postponed. He lifted his face again kissing her until she shuddered in response.

Sara responded with equal passion, arching her back, tugging at his shirt until she had it over his head and thrown aside. She gasped for breath as he kissed her again and again with deep, hot kisses. When his mouth left her flesh, a moan of protest issued from her throat. He kissed and teased with his tongue until her breath broke; she arched her back off the bed whispering his name.

Sliding his arm around her back to hold her, he gave ravenous attention to each tender nipple as need twisted through her. She knew—had always known—this was the man she had been born for. Caressed, cherished. She felt his body against hers, hot and hard, shuddering with his own need, yet he kissed her gently, touched her tenderly.

As he nudged her thighs apart, she whispered, "Pants, lose the pants!" She heard a good-humored grumble but in a few seconds, he was as naked as she.

Heat ignited inside her as a liquid fire, sizzling deep within her core, shooting from one pleasure center along her spine to her brain. A deep rumble came from his throat that told her of his passion and desire. But instead of claiming her quickly, he traced a single fingertip along her abdomen, to her hip, to her thigh until his fingers brushed the soft, dark triangle between her thighs. Lightly, he stroked, exploring, seeking and finding the warm dampness within her.

When she moved her legs over his, he gently put his hands under her knees and lifted them, guiding them into position.

With more tenderness than she could remember, he kissed her as he reached down and opened her with his fingers and guided himself slowly into her.

For several seconds, neither moved; their eyes met. Sara's fingers gently caressed his face. She smiled before kissing him and he began to move.

Sara's climax was gradual, swelling like a wave in the ocean, then cascading onto a beach, and seconds later, building to another crest, surging again. As she came again with him, she went weak all over, felt all the rush of a tide leaving her body as she was drenched with pleasure, limp, unable to move.

When she finally opened her eyes, Grissom was wrapping the sheet around both of them, cradling her to his chest, whispering soft words in her ear, threading his fingers through her hair. He kissed her over and over, softly, along the curve of her jaw, to her ear, closing his lips over her earlobe.

Finally, taking her face between his palms, he said, "I love you—I keep on loving you—I've loved you forever."

The door bell was ringing. Her husband was groaning and fighting bedcovers as he got out of bed.

"Throw me some clothes," Sara asked as he pulled jeans over his naked butt. "Who is at the door?"

Hobbling on legs that appeared unsteady, wincing as if he were in pain caused Sara to ask, "Are you okay?"

He shot her an impish look, "I'm not use to what we did half the night." With a quick grin, Grissom grumbled, "Who is at our door at seven on Saturday morning? The dogs are up—Eli will be awake by now." He found Sara's robe and passed it to her. "I'll be right back."

She heard the dogs and Eli's sleepy voice as Grissom left the bedroom. Softly, she laughed as she looked around the bedroom. It looked as if a windstorm had hit the bed. All of the wine and most of the cheese and fruit had disappeared. Looking around, she couldn't find the wine glasses.

Quickly, hearing voices coming from the living room, she wrapped the robe around herself, managed to reach the walker, and stood on unsteady legs. Before she could get across the room, Eli ran in still wearing his pajamas.

"Nick is here! Captain Jim is here—everyone is here!" The small boy appeared to be dancing in one spot, his feet moving so rapidly he seemed airborne.

"Why?"

"They have a fort! A real fort with wood and everything! A real fort for me!"

In the innumerable events and activities of the past weeks, a kid-size cedar play set had been ordered. Sara remembered giving Nick and Greg information about the delivery and set-up—and their response had been "we'll take care of it".

It wasn't just Nick, Jim, and Greg in her living room. Among the ten or twelve men walking through her house, she saw Ecklie, Hodges, David Phillips, Henry, and several detectives who worked the night shift.

"Good to see you standing, Sara!" Henry called in her direction. The others, intent on getting to the back yard, waved as they passed.

Nick gave her a hug, saying, "The gate was locked—so we had to ring the bell." He patted Eli's shoulder. "You ready for a real fort, big guy?"

By the time Grissom and Sara were dressed, another group showed up with food and drinks. So much activity was going on, several hours passed before Sara finally sat down.

Morgan, wearing an apron over her jeans, brought Sara a drink and a sandwich. "Vegetarian with cheese," the younger woman said. "We've missed you greatly, Sara."

Sara smiled, "I've missed you—work—and I have no idea when I'll return."

"Don't return too soon." Morgan nodded her head in Eli's direction. "And you have Eli—he seems to be a good boy."

"We do—and he is. His dad was a good man, Morgan. I think his mother was good to him," Sara's face contorted as she frowned. "We have a meeting with a judge in a few weeks. I want to walk in without a walker."

"You will." Morgan smiled as she held up three fingers in front of Sara. "And I—I have some news too."

Sara looked at Morgan, puzzlement on her face.

"Three dates! Real dates!"

With eyes wide, Sara smiled. "When? I can't believe he got the courage to ask! Real dates—not meeting after work?"

"Yes—real dates." Morgan's eyes dropped in an unusually shy manner. "And we're—we've decided to live together."

Sara looked at the men building the play set, seeing the one she sought, and grinned. "This is great—I'm happy for both of you."

"I wanted you to know first, Sara. He's so sweet—and I really do love him."

Giving a nod of approval, Sara hugged the younger woman. "Don't wait too long for the next step, Morgan."

Earnestly, Morgan said, "I don't think we will." She smiled, "I hope we can be as happy as you and Grissom are."

"We are—we really are," Sara said.

For several minutes, the two women watched as the men worked on the play set. Sara's eyes sought her husband and then Eli, who was running around the yard, talking to everyone, giving a spontaneous hug to Grissom before he chased after Sally Sue. He had never changed out of his pajamas.

_A/N: Thank you for reading-a very heart-felt thank you to those who review! One more chapter to go..._


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